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=_Jacob Leonard Martin,[83] 1803-1848._=

=_361_=.  THE CHURCH OF SANTA CROCE, FLORENCE.

  Tomb of the mighty dead,[84] illustrious shrine,
  Where genius, in the majesty of death,
  Reposes solemn, sepulchred beneath,
  Temple o’er every other fane divine! 
  Dark Santa Croce, in whose dust recline
  Their mouldering relics whose immortal wreath. 
  Blooms on, unfaded by Time’s withering breath,
  In these proud ashes what a prize is thine! 
  Sure it is holy ground I tread upon;
  Nor do I breathe unconsecrated air,
  As, rapt, I gaze on each undying name. 
  These monuments are fragments of the throne
  Once reared by genius on this spot so fair,
  When Florence was the seat of arts and early fame.

[Footnote 83:  A native of North Carolina; best known in political life, but meritorious in literature.]

[Footnote 84:  In this church repose Galileo, Michael Angelo, Alfieri, and other illustrious Italians.]

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=_Geo. W. Bethune, 1803-1862._= (Manual, p. 487.)

Invocation.

=_362._= MYTHOLOGY GIVES PLACE TO CHRISTIANITY.

  Hushed is their song; from long-frequented grove,
    Pale Memory, are thy bright-eyed daughters gone;
  No more in strains of melody and love,
    Gush forth thy sacred waters, Helicon;
  Prostrate on Egypt’s plain, Aurora’s son,
    God of the sunbeam and the living lyre,
  No more shall hail thee with mellifluous tone;
    Nor shall thy Pythia, raving from thy fire,
  Speak of the future sooth to those who would inquire.

  No more at Delos, or at Delphi now,
    Or e’en at mighty Ammon’s Lybian shrine,
  The white-robed priests before the altar bow,
    To slay the victim and to pour the wine,
  While gifts of kingdoms round each pillar twine;
    Scarce can the classic pilgrim, sweeping free
  From fallen architrave the desert vine. 
    Trace the dim names of their divinity—­
  Gods of the ruined temples, where, oh where! are ye?

  The Naiad bathing in her crystal spring,
    The guardian Nymph of every leafy tree,
  The rushing Aeolus on viewless wing,
    The flower-crowned Queen of every cultured lea,
  And he who walked, with monarch-tread, the sea,
    The awful Thunderer, threatening them aloud,
  God! were their vain imaginings of Thee,
    Who saw Thee only through the illusive cloud
  That sin had flung around their spirits, like a shroud.

  As fly the shadows of uncertain night,
    On misty vapors of the early day,
  When bursts o’er earth the sun’s resplendent light—­
    Fantastic visions! they have passed away,
  Chased by the purer Gospel’s orient ray. 
    My soul’s bright waters flow from out thy throne,
  And on my ardent breast thy sunbeam’s play;
    Fountain of thought!  True Source of light!  I own
  In joyful strains of praise, thy sovereign power alone.