tains formed the background
of the valley to the east, down from which came murmuring the fleet but
shallow Teivi. Such is the scenery which surrounds what remains of
Strata Florida: those scanty broken ruins compose all which remains of
that celebrated monastery, in which saints and mitred abbots were buried,
and in which, or in whose precincts, was buried Dafydd Ab Gwilym, the
greatest genius of the Cimbric race and one of the first poets of the
world.

After standing for some time on the mound I descended, and went up to the
church. I found the door fastened, but obtained through a window a
tolerable view of the interior, which presented an appearance of the
greatest simplicity. I then strolled about the churchyard looking at the
tombstones, which were humble enough and for the most part modern. I
would give something, said I, to know whereabouts in this neighbourhood
Ab Gwilym lies. That, however, is a secret that no one can reveal to me.
At length I came to a yew-tree which stood just by the northern wall,
which is at a slight distance from the Teivi. It was one of two trees,
both of the same species, which stood in the churchyard, and appeared to
be the oldest of the two. Who knows, said I, but this is the tree that
was planted over Ab Gwilym's grave, and to which Gruffydd Gryg wrote an
ode? I looked at it attentively, and thought that there was just a
possibility of its being the identical tree. If it was, however, the
benison of Gruffydd Gryg had not had exactly the effect which he
intended, for either lightning or the force of wind had splitten off a
considerable part of the head and trunk, so that though one part of it
looked strong and blooming, the other was white and spectral.
Nevertheless, relying on the possibility of its being the sacred tree, I
behaved just as I should have done had I been quite certain of the fact.
Taking off my hat I knelt down and kissed its root, repeating lines from
Gruffydd Gryg, with which I blended some of my own in order to
accommodate what I said to present circumstances:--

"O tree of yew, which here I spy,
By Ystrad Flur's blest monast'ry,
Beneath thee lies, by cold Death bound,
The tongue for sweetness once renown'd.
Better for thee thy boughs to wave,
Though scath'd, above Ab Gwilym's grave,
Than stand in pristine glory drest
Where some ignobler bard doth rest;
I'd rather hear a taunting rhyme
From one who'll live throu