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.