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more easily. Then they made a screw that was a gimlet, and that only required to be driven home with a screw-driver, the necessity for the use of a gimlet being obviated. Only a little time was saved in putting in one screw ; but if a man can put in fifty screws now in the time that he then required to put in twenty, the benefit to all who use screws throughout the United States and the world over, must be very great.

4. And what must be the sum of the gain, in the abbreviation of these little processes, when it comes, not to one alone, but to all that belong to mechanic arts, making labor easier ? What is it but emancipating man?

There is a process of emancipation going on which lightens toil, shortens the period of work, gives more hours for study, and leaves a constitution that is not taxed and worn out. Such is the process of coupling manhood to knowledge and opportunity. And though they that invent do not know it, God knows it and means it—that mechanical and skilled labors are all working for the elevation of the race.

CXX-SCENE AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER.

ANDREWS NORTON.

1. The rain is o'er.—How dense and bright

Yon pearly clouds reposing lie!
Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight,

Contrasting with the dark blue sky!

2. In grateful silence earth receives

The general blessing; fresh and fair,
Each flower expands its little leaves,

As glad the common joy to share.

3. The softened sunbeams pour around

A fairy light, uncertain, pale;

The wind flows cool; the scented ground

Is breathing odors on the gale.

4. Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile,

Methinks some spirit of the air Might rest to gaze below awhile,

Then turn to bathe and revel there.

5. The sun breaks forth : from off the scene

Its floating vale of mist is flung; And all the wilderness of green

With trembling drops of light is hung.

6. Now gaze on nature—yet the same,

Glowing with life, by breezes fanned, Luxuriant, lovely, as she came

Fresh in her youth from God's own hand.

7. Hear the rich music of that voice

Which sounds from all below, above; She calls her children to rejoice,

And round them throws her arms of love.

8. Drink in her influence: low-born care,

And all the train of mean desire,
Refuse to breathe this holy air,
And ’mid this living light expire.

1

CXXI.- PARTING OF HECTOR FROM

ANDROMACHE.

HOMER, TRANSLATED BY POPE. 1. Hector, this heard, returned without delay; Swift through the town he trod his former way, Through streets of palaces, and walks of state, And met the mourner at the Scæan gate.

With haste to meet him sprung the joyful fair,
IIis blameless wife, Aëtion's wealthy heir ;
(Cilician Thebé great Aëtion swayed,
And IIypoplacus' wide extended shade.)
The nurse stood near, in whose embraces pressed,
Ilis only hope hung smiling at her breast,
Whom each soft charm and early grace adorn,
Fair as the new-born star that gilds the morn.

2. To this loved infant Hector

gave

the name
Scamandrius, from Scamander's honored stream;
Astyanax the Trojans called the boy,
From his great father, the defense of Troy.
Silent the warrior smiled, and pleased resigned
To tender passions all his mighty mind :
His beauteous princess cast a mournful look,
Hung on his hand, and then dejected spoke;
Her bosom labored with a boding sigh,
And the big tear stood trembling in her eye.

3. “ Too daring prince! ah, whither dost thou run? Ah, too forgetful of thy wife and son ! And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be, A widow I, a helpless orphan he! For sure such courage length of life denies, And thou must fall, thy virtue's sacrifice. Greece in her single heroes strove in vain; Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be slain ! Oh grant me, gods! ere Hector meets his doom, All I can ask of Heaven, an early tomb! So shall my days in one sad tenor run, And end with sorrows as they first begun.

4. “No parent now remains my griefs to share, No father's aid, no mother's tender care.

The fierce Achilles wrapped our walls in fire,
Laid Thebé waste, and slew my warlike sire!
His fate compassion in the victor bred;
Stern as he was, he yet revered the dead,-
His radiant arms preserved from hostile spoil,
And laid him decent on the funeral pile ;
Then raised a mountain where his bones were burned;
The mountain-nymphs the rural tomb adorn’d;
Jove's sylvan daughters bade their elms bestow
A barren shade, and in his honor grow.

5.“ By the same arm my seven brave brothers fell; In one sad day beheld the gates of hell : While the fat herds and snowy flocks they fed Amid their fields, the hapless heroes bled! My mother lived to bear the victor's bands, The queen of Hypoplacia's sylvan lands : Redeemed too late, she scarce beheld again Her pleasing empire and her native plain, When ah! oppressed by life-consuming woe, She fell a victim to Diana's bow.

6. “ Yet, while my Hector still survives, I see
My father, mother, brethren, all in thee:
Alas ! my parents, brothers, kindred, all
Once more will perish, if my Hector fall.
Thy wife, thy infant, in thy dangers share:
Oh prove a husband's and a father's care !
That quarter most the skillful Greeks annoy,
Where yon wild fig-trees join the walls of Troy :
Thou from this tower defend the important post;
There Agamemnon points his dreadful host,
That pass Tydides, Ajax, strive to gain,
And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train.

Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given,
Or led by hopes, or dictated from Heaven.
Let others in the field their arms employ,
But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy."

7. The chief replied: “That post shall be my care, Nor that alone, but all the works of war. How would the sons of Troy in arms renowned, And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground, Attaint the luster of

my

former name,
Should Hector basely quit the field of fame?
My early youth was bred to martial pains,
My soul inipels me to the embattled plains :
Let me be foremost to defend the throne,
And guard my father's glories, and my own.
Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates ;
(How my heart trembles while my tongue relates !)
The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend,
And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end.

8. “ And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind,
My mother's death, the ruin of my kind,
Not Priam's hoary hairs defiled with gore,
Not all my brothers gasping on the shore,
As thine Andromache ! thy griefs I dread;
I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led !
In Argive looms our battles to design,
And woes, of which so large a part was thine!
To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring
The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring.
There, while you groan beneath the load of life,
They cry, 'Behold the mighty Hector's wife!'
Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see,
Embitters all thy woes, by naming me.

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