FAEMERS' INSTITUTES. 319 



maxims still thrive upon his native soil. He was brought up in the rich fields 

 of Boeotia, the best farming region of Greece. Is it a mere coincidence that 

 this same region, according to Greek legend, is the birthplace of lyric poetry 

 and the very home of the muses? Or has the very nature of a luxuriant vege- 

 table growth, with all its attendant blessings, a charm for the human soul 

 which calls for utterance in the flowing nimibers of the poet's song? Pindar, 

 the master of the ode, grew up there and gained there the inspiration that makes 

 his fame last till now. It is even supposed that rural life called forth his powers, 

 and rural festivals were the occasion of his verses. 



The very origin of the drama is traced by its names to the country festivals in 

 honor of j3ionysus, or Bacchus, god of wine, the story of whose exploits, grave or 

 gay, in traversing the world to introduce the culture of the vine, grew into the 

 well known tragedy and comedy. 



But let the ancient poets pass, with many a phase of country life immortalized 

 by their bright pictures. We can scarcely stop to dwell on Virgil, whose Phyllis 

 sets her cap for country swains in a hundred imitators to our own times. And 

 yet his eclogues and his georgics might interest, perhaps instruct, the best trained 

 husbandman among us. He certainly did not despise the farmer's lot. 



Perhaps we cannot do better right here than to bring uj) our English Thomp- 

 son, author of "The Seasons," as witness both to Virgil's thoughts and his own 

 sympathy with country life. See how he turns a passage in Virgil to account 

 in his ''Autumn:" 



" Oh! knew he but his happiness, of men 

 The happiest lie, wlio far from public rage. 

 Deep in the vale, witli a choice few retired, 

 Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life ! 

 What though the (lome be wanting whose proiul gate, 

 Each morning, vomits out the sneaking crowd 

 Of flatterers false, and in their turn abused? 

 Vile intercourse! What tho' the glittering robe 

 Of every hue reflected light can give, 

 Or floating loose, or stifl' with mazy gold, 

 The pride and gaze of tools! oppress him not. 

 What though from utmost land and sea purveyed 

 For him each rarer tributary life 

 Bleeds not, and his insatiable table heaps 

 AVith luxury and death? What though his bowl 

 Flames not with costly juice ; nor sunk in beds, 

 Oft of gay care, he tosses out the night, 

 Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state? 

 "What though he knows not those fantastic joys 

 That still amuse the wanton, still deceive, 

 A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain ; 

 Their hollow moments, uudelighted all? 

 Sure peace is his, a solid life, estranged 

 To disappointment and fallacious hope ; 

 Rich in content, in nature's bounty rich, 

 In herbs and fruits; whatever greens the Spring 

 When heaven descends in showers, or bends the bough 

 When Summer reddens and when Autumn beams. 

 Or in the Wintry glebe whatever lies 

 Concealed, and fattens with the richest sap, — 

 These are not wanting; nor the milky drove 

 Luxuriant, spread o'er all the lowing vale; 

 Nor bleating mountains; nor the chide of streams, 

 And hum of bees, inviting sleep sincere 

 Into the guiltless breast, beneath the shade, 

 Or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay; 



