The Volsung Tale. By F. Scarlet Potter. (Martin, 9 Lisson
Grove.) —This little poem appears in a most modest guise, but it is ten times more worth reading than most of the volumes of "minor " poetry that reach us. Mr. Potter has no small command of language, shows a taste almost uniformly good, sad has acquired something of that rhythm in his blank verse which is so easy to recognize, so impossible to describe. The Volsung Tale is a saga of the loves of Sigurd and Brynhilda, which some of our readers will probably recognize. Brynhilda, made haughty by her wisdom and strength, is placed by Odin within a circle of magic fire. The hero who breaks through it is to win her and teach her true wisdom. Sigurd achieves the feat; and, after betrothal to the maiden, goes on his way to win renown. In course of time he comes to the Court of Giuki. There the Queen, Grimhilda, gives him a magic drink which makes him forget his former life; and so he marries the Queen's daughter, Gudruna. Then Gunnar, Giuki's son, hears of Brynhilda, and seeks to win her, but fails till Sigurd himself accomplishes the deed, which is to take his own helmet from the magic fire. The maiden recognizes him, but he calls himself Gunnar, and his face ho had never shown. To Gunnar accordingly she is married. The end of the tale the reader will find out, we hope, for himself. We must quote one fine passage, where Sigurd speaks of the curse of Odin which is on his
house:—
"I shall not strive with Odin, though his hand Lies heavy, has lain heavily on all My race, the House of Volsung. What am I More than the Kings my fathers who long since Received his fatal favours and are dead, Slain for his pastime? Well my Father knew His bitter jestings. Very long ago
There stood an oak, knotted and hard with age, Within my Father's mead-hall, where he sat At banquet with his earls. And, as they drank, Came an unbiddden guest, big-limbed and tall, Unknown in all the fashion of his garb, With but one eye, yet such an eye that none Had lust to meet it; very grey with age, And lofty in his bearing, like a king."
The stranger thrusts a sword into the oak, and bids the guests draw it forth. They all try in vain, till Sigmund the King
Came slowly to the tree, and took the hilt ; And grasped it with white knuckles, till his arm Was stiff and hard and knotted as the oak, And at one bending drew it. That was Gram, The best of swords. And all who felt it died.
So he had victory ; but evermore Had evil; for all wished that sword, and wars Were thick about him; and his brethren died,
And all his sons. Till, at the last, he strove— I, the avenger, being as yet unborn— In battle with King'Hunding ; and had thought
To slay him, last and chief est of his foes ; But, as they fought, between him and the King An unknown hero stood, big limbed and tall, And met him with his spear. Whereat with Gram He smote the spear; but, as he smote, the blade Snapped short, and clashed in fragments at his feet; And looking, he beheld the terrible eye
None cared to see; he knew the grizzly beard,
Knew the strange garb, the bearing like a king; Knew Odin, giver of the sword ; and knew How bitter were his jests. And sat him down Among the dead, upon the trampled heath,
And bowed his head, and took his doom and died ;
For who may strive with Odin?"
There is a power about this verse which makes us hope to meet Mr. Potter again.
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