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"The great Rhine shall rule O'er the hate-raising treasure, That gold of the Niblungs, The seed of the gods: In the weltering water Shall that wealth lie a-gleaming, Or it shine on the hands Of the children of Huns!" Then cried Atli, King of the Hun-folk, "Drive forth your wains now The slave is fast bounden."

"For the wolves shall rule O'er the wealth of the Niblungs, With the pine-woods' wardens In Gunnar perish: And the black-felled bears With fierce teeth shall bite For the glee of the dog kind, If again comes not Gunnar."

Sigurd the Volsung is a kind of set exercise in epic poetry. It is great, but it is not needed. It is, in fact, an attempt to write epic poetry as it might have been written, and to make epic poetry mean what it might have meant, in the days when the tale of Sigurd and the Niblungs was newly come among men's minds. Mr.

A few of these will be welcome to the ordinary citizen visiting the theatre to satisfy his curiosity, or his desire to be in the fashion, by witnessing a representation of Richard Wagner's famous Ring of the Niblungs.

To begin with, there is a considerable portion of The Ring, especially the portraiture of our capitalistic industrial system from the socialist's point of view in the slavery of the Niblungs and the tyranny of Alberic, which is unmistakable, as it dramatizes that portion of human activity which lies well within the territory covered by our intellectual consciousness.

"So now all ye, O House of the Niblungs, Shall be brought to naught, O ye oath-breakers! "Think'st thou not, Gunnar, How that betid, When ye let the blood run Both in one footstep? With ill reward Hast thou rewarded His heart so fain To be the foremost!

Howso little it quaketh Laid here on the dish, Yet far less it quaked In the breast of him laid. "So far mayst thou bide From men's eyen, O Atli, As from that treasure Thou shalt abide! "Behold in my heart Is hidden for ever That hoard of the Niblungs, Now Hogni is dead. Doubt threw me two ways While the twain of us lived, But all that is gone Now I live on alone.

At length a king's son found his way in at the very moment the fated period came to an end; or, as we have it in other versions, he awakened the maiden with a kiss. In the old stories of the Niblungs and the Volsungs Odin has pricked the shield-maid Brynhild with a sleep-thorn, and thus condemned her to sleep within the shield-burg on Hindfell.

But on Gunnar they fell, And set him in fetters, And bound hard and fast That friend of Burgundians; Then the warrior they asked If he would buy life, But life with gold That king of the Goths. Nobly spake Gunnar, Great lord of the Niblungs; "Hogni's bleeding heart first Shall lie in mine hand, Cut from the breast Of the bold-riding lord, With bitter-sharp knife From the son of the king."

"Such sore grief as that Methought never should be, Yet more indeed Was left for my torment Then, when the great ones Gave me to Atli. "My fair bright boys I bade unto speech, Nor yet might I win Weregild for my bale, Ere I had hewn off Those Niblungs' heads.