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.]

* * * * *

=_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.

O breathe upon my soul thy Spirit's fire,
That I may glow like seraphim on high,
Or rapt Isaiah kindling o'er his lyre;
And sent by Thee, let holy Hope be nigh,
To fill with prescient joy my ravished eye,
And gentle Love; to tune each jarring string
Accordant with the heavenly harmony;
Then upward borne, on Faith's