XXXVI.

No hall was ever made so immoveable As that of Cynon with the gentle breast, sovereign of the saints; {135e} He sat no longer on his elevated throne, {136a} Whom he pierced were not pierced again, {136b} Keen was the point of his lance, It perforated the enamelled armour, it penetrated through the troops; Swift in the van were his horses, in front they tore along; In the day of his anger {136c} blasting was his blade, When Cynon rushed into battle with the green dawn.