He drinks, nor of the rude assault complains;
And tells the Tale, from sire to son retold,
Of spirits vanishing near hidden gold;
Of moon-clad Imps, that tremble by the dew,
Who skim the air, or glide o'er waters blue.
The throng invisible, that doubtless float
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By mould'ring Tombs, and o'er the stagnant moat;
Fays dimly glancing on the russet plain,
And all the dreadful nothing of the Green.