I Crossed Over Into The
Churchyard, Ascended A Green Mound, And Looked About Me.
I was now
in the very midst of the Monachlog Ystrad Flur, the celebrated
monastery of Strata Florida, to which in old times Popish pilgrims
from all parts of the world repaired.
The scene was solemn and
impressive: on the north side of the river a large bulky hill
looked down upon the ruins and the church, and on the south side,
some way behind the farm-house, was another which did the same.
Rugged mountains 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 through endless time,
Than hear my praises chanted loud
By poets of the vulgar crowd."
I had left the churchyard, and was standing near a kind of garden,
at some little distance from the farm-house, gazing about me and
meditating, when a man came up attended by a large dog.
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