“Here was a corn field; reapers in a row, Each with a sharp-tooth’d sickle in his hand, Work’d busily, and, as the harvest fell, Others were ready still to bind the sheaves: Yoked to a wain that bore the corn away The steers were moving; sturdy bullocks here The plough were drawing, and the furrow’d glebe Was black behind them, while with goading wand The active youths impell’d them. Here a feast Was graved: to the shrill pipe and ringing lyre A band of blooming virgins led the dance. As if endued with life.” —Dyce’s Calaber.