Britain ... - Blue-Lite

90 THE ENGLISH SLAVE. [Act V.
CHORUS.
During which the thunder continues very loud.
Sound the trump, and sound the horn,
Hail to Odin's sacred morn !
Hark ! his thunders roll on high,
His glories fill the burning sky.
Turn the captive to the north,
Let his blood gush freely forth !
Strike ! as peals his death-hymn far,
The victim to our god of war !
Strike ! strike ! strike !
[ Thunder.
[As the Priest lifts his arm to stab Edgar, shouts
without and voices.
Rogvalla ! Rogvalla !
Enter Rogvalla, the Danish officers floch round him.
GRAND CHORUS.
Triumph ! ! triumph he is free !
Revenge ! revenge ! and victory !
England, blood for blood now calls,
Flames shall scathe thy princely halls !
Thou shalt rue St. Brice's night,
And sink, the slave of Denmark's might !
Enter Frotho.
FROTHO.
The Earl of Devon hath stormed the camp and slain
Our stoutest Danes, and, like a raging lion,
He hither comes. Speed, warriors, to your ships !
Enter Gondabert and Othmar with Saxon Soldiers,
driving in the Danes.