Classic Poem

Of all sweet waters and soul-stirring spots,
Remote from the contentions of mankind,
Oftest repictured by my musing thoughts,
Lies a bright lake among fair trees enshrined,
Yclept Loch Achilty. A heath-grown crest
Surnamed the Tor its eastern guardian seems,
While wild Craig Darroch rears its hill of dreams
Emprisoning the clear wave on the west.
Bright mimic bays with weeping birches fringed —
An islet ruin — solitary deer —
And distant mountains by the sun-ray tinged
At the Mind's animating beck appear,
Nor un-remembered in the wizard scene,
Against a moss-grown stone, entranced two anglers lean.