O tree of yew, which here I spy,
By Forida’s famed monastery;
Beneath thee lies, by cold death bound,
The tongue for sweetness once renown’d.

Thou noble tree who shelterest kind,
The grave from winter’s snow and wind,
May lightning never lay thee low,
Nor archer cut from thee his bow;
Nor Crispin peel thee, pegs to frame,
But may thou ever bloom the same;
A noble tree the grave to guard
Of Cambria’s most illustrious bard!

London:
Printed for THOMAS J. WISE, Hampstead, N.W.
Edition limited to Thirty Copies.