By that the light of Titan’s troubled beams Had piercing scattered down the drooping fogs, And greeted both the camps with mutual view. Their choler swells, whiles fell-disposed minds Bounce in their breasts, and stir uncertain storms. Then paleness wan and stern, with cheerless change, Possessing bleak their lips and bloodless cheeks, With troublous trembling, shows their death is near. When Mordred saw the danger thus approach’d, And boist’rous throngs of warriors threat’ning blood, His instant ruin gave a nod at fates, And mind, though prone to Mars, yet daunted paus’d. The heart which promis’d erst a sure success, Now throbs in doubts, nor can his own attempts Afford him fear, nor Arthur’s yield him hope. This passion lasts not long: he soon recalls His ancient guise, and wonted rage returns. He loathes delays, and scorch’d with sceptre’s lust, The time and place, wherein he oft had wish’d To hazard all upon extremest chance, He offer’d spies, and spied pursues with speed. Then both the armies met with equal might, This stirr’d with wrath, that with desire to rule, And equal prowess was a spur to both. The Irish king whirl’d out a poisoned dart, That lighting pierced deep in Howell’s brains, A peerless prince and near of Arthur’s blood. Hereat the air with uproar loud resounds, Which efts on mountains rough rebounding rears. The trumpets hoarse their trembling tunes do tear, And thund’ring drums their dreadful larums ring. The standards broad are blown and ensigns spread, And every nation bends his wonted wars. Some near their foes, some further off do wound, With dart or sword, or shaft, or pike, or spear; The weapons hide the heavens; a night compos’d Of warlike engines overshades the field. From every side these fatal signs are sent, And boist’rous bangs with thumping thwacks fall thick. Had both these camps been of usurping kings, Had every man thereof a Mordred been, No fiercelier had they fought for all their crowns. The murthers meanless wax’d, no art in fight, Nor way to ward nor try each other’s skill. But thence the blade, and hence the blood ensues. CONAN. But what! did Mordred’s eyes endure this sight? NUNCIUS. They did; and he himself, the spur of fiends And Gorgons all, lest any part of his Scap’d free from guilt, enflam’d their minds to wrath, And with a valour, more than virtue yields, He cheer’d them all, and at their back with long Outreached spear stirr’d up each ling’ring hand. All fury-like, frounc’d up with frantic frets, He bids them leave and shun the meaner sort, He shows the kings and Britain’s noblest peers. GILDAS. He was not now to seek what blood to draw: He knew what juice refresh’d his fainting crown, Too much of Arthur’s heart. O, had he wist, How great a vice such virtue was as then, In civil wars, in rooting up his realm! O frantic fury, far from valour’s praise!