Though foliage close, though hills may seem
To bar all access to a stream,
Some airy height he climbs amain,
And finds the silver eel again.
No fears we form'd, no labours counted,
Yet SYMMON'S YAT must be surmounted;
A tower of rock that seems to cry,
'Go round about me, neighbour WYE[A].'
[Footnote A: This rocky isthmus, perforated at the base, would measure not
more than six hundred yards, and its highest point is two thousand feet
above the water. If this statement, taken from Coxe's History of
Monmouthshire, and an Excursion down the Wye, by C. Heath, of Monmouth, is
correct, its elevation is greater than that of the "Pen-y-Vale," or the
"Sugar-Loaf Hill," near Abergavenny. Yet it has less the appearance of a
mountain, than the river has that of an excavation.]
On went the boat, and up the steep
Her straggling crew began to creep,
To gain the ridge, enjoy the view,
Where the the pure gales of summer blew.
The gleaming WYE, that circles round
Her four-mile course, again is found;
And crouching to the conqueror's pride,
Bathes his huge cliffs on either side;
Seen at one glance, when from his brow,
The eye surveys twin gulphs below.

Whence comes thy name? What _Symon_ he,
Who gain'd a monument in thee?
Perhaps a rude woodhunter, born
Peril, and toil, and death, to scorn;