Lines 1417–1648

On Crist ihc wolde bileue;
On him hi makede me reue,
To kepe þis passage
Fram horn þat is of age,
Þat wunieþ bieste,
Kniȝt wiþ þe beste.
Hi sloȝe wiþ here honde,
Þe king of þis londe,
And wiþ him fele hundred.
And þerof is wunder
Þat he ne comeþ to fiȝte;
God sende him þe riȝte,
And wind him hider driue,
To bringe hem of liue.
Hi sloȝen kyng Murry,
Hornes fader, king hendy.
Horn hi vt of londe sente;
Tuelf felaȝes wiþ him wente,
Among hem aþulf þe gode,
Min oȝene child, my leue fode.
Ef horn child is hol and sund,
And Aþulf biþute wund,
He luueþ him so dere,
And is him so stere,
Miȝte iseon hem tueie,
For ioie i scholde deie.”
“Kniȝt, beo þanne bliþe,
Mest of alle siþe.
Horn and Aþulf his fere,
Boþe hi ben here.”
To horn he gan gon,
And grette him anon.
Muche ioie hi makede þere,
Þe while hi togadere were.
“Childre,” he sede, “hu habbe ȝe fare?
Þat ihc ȝou seȝ hit is ful ȝare.
Wulle ȝe þis londe winne,
And sle þat þeris inne?”
He sede, “leue horn child,
Ȝitt lyueþ þi moder Godhild.
Of ioie heo miste,
If heo þe aliue wiste.”
Horn sede on his rime,
“Iblessed beo þe time
I com to suddenne,
Wiþ mine irisse menne.
We schulle þe hundes teche
To speken vre speche.
Alle we hem schulle sle,
And al quic hem fle.”
Horn gan his horn to blowe;
His folk hit gan iknowe.
Hi comen vt of stere,
Fram hornes banere.
Hi sloȝen and fuȝten,
Þe niȝt and þe vȝten.
Þe Sarazins cunde,
Ne lefde þer non in þende.
Horn let wurche
Chapeles and chirche;
He let belles ringe,
And Masses let singe.
He com to his Moder halle,
In a roche walle.
Corn he let serie,
And makede feste merie.
Murie lif he wroȝte;
Rymenhild hit dere boȝte.
Fikenhild was prut on herte,
And þat him dude smerte.
Ȝonge he ȝaf and elde,
Mid him for to helde.
Ston he dude lede,
Þer he hopede spede.
Strong castel he let sette,
Mid see him biflette.
Þer ne miȝte liȝte
Bute foȝel wiþ fliȝte;
Bute whanne þe see wiþ droȝe,
Miȝte come men ynoȝe.
Fikenhild gan wende
Rymenhild to schende.
To woȝe he gan hure ȝerne;
Þe kyng ne dorste him werne.
Rymenhild was ful of mode;
He wep teres of blode.
Þat niȝt horn gan swete,
And heuie for to mete
Of Rymenhild his make,
Into schupe was itake.
Þe schup bigan to blenche;
His lemman scholde adrenche.
Rymenhild wiþ hire honde
Wolde vp to londe.
Fikenhild aȝen hire pelte
Wiþ his swerdes hilte.
Horn him wok of slape,
So a man þat hadde rape.
“Aþulf,” he sede, “felaȝe,
To schupe we mote draȝe.
Fikenhild me haþ idon vnder,
And Rymenhild to do wunder.
Crist, for his wundes fiue,
To niȝt me þuder driue.”
Horn gan to schupe Ride,
His feren him biside.
Fikenhild, or þe dai gan springe,
Al riȝt he ferde to þe kinge,
After Rymenhild þe briȝte,
To wedden hire biniȝte.
He ladde hure bi þe derke,
Into his nywe werke.
Þe feste hi bigunne,
Er þat ros þe sunne.
Er þane horn hit wiste,
To fore þe sunne vpriste.
His schup stod vnder ture,
At Rymenhilde bure.
Rymenhild, litel weneþ heo
Þat Horn þanne aliue beo.
Þe castel þei ne knewe,
For he was so nywe.
Horn fond sittinde Arnoldin,
Þat was Aþulfes cosin,
Þat þer was in þat tide,
Horn for tabide.
“Horn kniȝt,” he sede, “kinges sone,
Wel beo þu to londe icome.
Today haþ y wedde fikenhild,
Þi swete lemman, Rymenhild.
Ne schal i þe lie;
He haþ giled þe twie.
Þis tur he let make
Al for þine sake.
Ne mai þer come inne
Noman wiþ none ginne.
Horn, nu crist þe wisse,
Of Rymenhild þat þu ne misse.”
Horn cuþe al þe liste
Þat eni man of wiste.
Harpe he gan schewe,
And tok felaȝes fewe,
Of kniȝtes suiþe snelle,
Þat schrudde hem at wille.
Hi ȝeden bi þe grauel,
Toward þe castel.
Hi gunne murie singe,
And makede here gleowinge.
Rymenhild hit gan ihere,
And axede what hi were.
Hi sede hi weren harpurs,
And sume were gigours.
He dude horn in late,
Riȝt at halle gate.
He sette him on þe benche,
His harpe for to clenche.
He makede Rymenhilde lay,
And heo makede walaway.
Rymenhild feol yswoȝe;
Ne was þer non þat louȝe.
Hit smot to hornes herte
So bitere þat hit smerte.
He lokede on þe ringe,
And þoȝte on Rymenhilde.
He ȝede vp to borde,
Wiþ gode suerdes orde.
Fikenhildes crune
Þer ifulde adune,
And al his men arowe
Hi dude adun þrowe!
Whanne hi weren aslaȝe,
Fikenhild hi dude to draȝe.
Horn makede Arnoldin þare
King, after king Aylmare,
Of al westernesse,
For his meoknesse.
Þe king and his homage
Ȝeuen Arnoldin trewage.
Horn tok Rymenhild bi þe honde,
And ladde hure to þe stronde,
And ladde wiþ him Aþelbrus,
Þe gode stuard of his hus.
Þe se bigan to flowe,
And horn gan to Rowe.
Hi gunne for ariue
Þer king modi was sire.
Aþelfrus he makede þer king,
For his gode teching.
He ȝaf alle þe kniȝtes ore,
For horn kniȝtes lore.
Horn gan for to ride;
Þe wind him bleu wel wide.
He ariuede in yrlonde,
Þer he wo fondede.
Þer he dude Aþulf child
Wedden maide Reynild.
Horn com to suddenne,
Among al his kenne.
Rymenhild he makede his quene,
So hit miȝte wel beon.
Alfolk hem miȝte rewe,
Þat loueden hem so trewe;
Nu ben hi boþe dede;
Crist to heuene hem lede.
Her endeþ þe tale of horn
Þat fair was and noȝt vnorn.
Make we vs glade Eure among,
For þus him endeþ hornes song.
Jesus þat is of heuene king,
Ȝeue vs alle his suete blessing.