Upon that classic bank did Mutius stand, And in the midst of his astonish'd foes Upon the altar there he placed his hand Unshrinking, round it whilst the flames arose, To show th' invader of his native land How he could scorn the torture's fiercest throes, And that no tyrant's power could be secure Against a patriot's purpose, firm and pure. All these were high and noble in their daring, In distant ages were their deeds achieved, But they had earthly motives strongly bearing Them onward in their course, for they believed That man would honor them. Nor scant nor sparing Has been the classic fame they have received, And history still delights to gild her pages With deeds like theirs from Rome's incipient ages. But still old Tiber's course hath onward sped, And other incidents of higher fame Have on his banks a holy lustre shed, There Diocletian did his will proclaim-- That to the ancient stream there should be led His Christian subjects, and the sacred name Of Christ should be abjured, or Tiber's wave Should those engulf who own'd His pow'r to save. In youthful innocence a beauteous maid Stands 'mongst the victims doom'd with lips compress'd, And eyes already closed--she hath essay'd To banish earthly thoughts. Upon her breast Her hands are folded--she hath meekly pray'd, And He to whom her pray'r has been address'd, To whom she clings all faithful, gives her pow'r To meet the terrors of life's closing hour. They bind her hands--she heeds not the infliction Of cords that sink into her tender limb; She, thinking of her Saviour's crucifixion-- Her soul hath flown to Calvary to Him. She meekly hears each heathen malediction, Heav'n seems to ope as earth appears more dim; Her fate severe for thrones she would not barter, And now she sinks--a Christian Maiden Martyr! Her form is slowly gliding to the sea, Her soul to Paradise its way is winging, Upon her pallid face serenity Shows that to earth her heart was never clinging; To all the elements her corse may be Abandoned, but the seraph choir is singing, And chaplets fairer than the flow'rs of Eden In Heav'n shall deck the martyr'd Christian maiden. Still o'er her drifting form a circlet golden Upon the river sheds its lambent rays, As though it would the lively hope embolden The martyr's truth shall shine in future days, And when her bones have moulder'd deep and cold in Their ocean grave, men shall accord their praise To him whose reverie or vision mystic Her suff'rings shall depict with grace artistic. The following lines were suggested by a visit to an extensive paper manufactory at Inchicore, which, I regret to say, is not working at present:--