When you proceed down Sych-nant's track,
The wind will try to force you back;
As if asham'd to let you view
A barren sea and mountain too.
No--pent by hills it can't be free;
That freedom lost it held at sea.
The sea looks stern, the tempests lour,
And now you see Great Penmain Mowr;
Then you conclude, being full of dread,
There can't be room for foot to tread.

Ere you this dreadful terrace pass,
Recruit your spirits with a glass.

You venture on, though nothing's still;
And almost wish you'd made your will:
Wish the rocks would, and, with a sigh,
Suspend their fall, while you pass by;
The sea its horrid rage abate,
Just till you reach the turn-pike gate.
Then--'What a simpleton was I!
So frighted! yet no danger nigh.'