Through Luichart's lone expanse dark Conan flows,
Of moorland nature, as its tawny blood
Betokens, and insensibly the flood
Glides onward, while continuous hills enclose
The quiet lake; at length, this soft repose —
The Syren bosom of the pastoral deeps
It rudely spurns, and with terrific leaps
Descends into the valley. Oft I chose
In days by-gone the wild and wizard place
Wherein to roam, and from the eddy's rout
Lured with bewitching fly the wary trout;
This scene hath Time's hand shifted, and its face
'Reft of the life; yet, picture-like, to me
It hangs within the Mind's dark gallery.