Plying their task right joyously, with sickle each in hand.
Some strew in lines, as on they press, the handfuls thick behind,
While at their heels the heavy sheaves their merry comrades bind.
These to the mows a troop of boys next bear in haste away,
Piling upon the golden glebe the triumphs of the day.
Among them wrapped in silent joy, their sceptered king appears,
Beholding, in the swelling heaps, the stores of future years.
A mighty ox beneath an oak the busy heralds slay,
With grateful sacrifice to close the labours of the day.
While near, the husbandman’s repast the rustic maids prepare,