Hop-Picking Poem by Martin Farquhar Tupper

A Thyrsus grove it seem'd, of standing spears
Wildly festoon'd with gadding wreaths of green;
Yet, not as if old Bacchus and his peers
In tipsy rout and frolic there had been
To hurl them up on end with all their sheen-
But orderly set forth in warrior rank,
Giants array'd, with fighting room at flank,
Caparison'd, and heavily plumed a-top
With clustering bells :- and, are these Dryad bands,
Or groups of Oreades, so blythely seen
To gather in with songs that golden crop,
Crushing its fragrance in their sportive hands?
No! dreamer :- let Arcadian fancies drop;
These are but hop-pickers,- and that the Hop.