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.
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