“Nothing, except that he was an illegitimate child, and was found, shortly after his birth, under the peristyle of St. Louis’ church.” “St. Louis’ church?” “Yes: and he was taken to the Foundling Hospital in the Rue du Plessis.” “The Rue du Plessis?” “Yes: he told me the whole story the day before yesterday, at my evening visit to the prison infirmary. He had carefully preserved an old card, upon which were traced some strange characters, and an engraved stone belonging to a seal. He requested me to take charge of them. I believe they are still in my pocket-book. Yes, here they are. This stone must have belonged to a valuable trinket—he probably sold the setting. Here is the card.” The old invalid, whose increasing agitation had not been observed by the doctor, threw a rapid glance over these objects,—then, with a shriek of horror, sunk back upon his chair. “Great God,” he exclaimed, “the mendicant was my son!” A few minutes after, this unnatural parent had ceased to breathe. * * * * * THE BAPTISM OF POCAHONTAS. ON THE PICTURE IN THE ROTUNDA AT WASHINGTON. Sweet, gentle girl! in holy meekness bending, Though of a wilder race and darker hue; Etherial light is on thy soul descending, Loveliest of wild flowers! like thy native dew. Seen in the struggling of that heaving breast, The quivering lip—the downward, fawn-like eye, The strange, deep penitence that will not rest, That gushes tears, and vents the swelling sigh. From thy dark shades of superstitious lore, Thou com’st arrayed in purest vestal white, That he, the man of God, might on thee pour Jordan’s still wave, to give thy blindness sight; And to that heart, where hath been deeply stealing, The fading bloom of earth’s bright flowery way, A brighter—far enduring bliss revealing, In the pure path of Truth’s eternal ray. Bound in the rapture that thy beauty lendeth, Thy pale-face lover at thy lonely side, Holdeth with silent joy the book that blendeth Life and life’s hope—its comfort and its guide. Breathing in his warm look the bliss that springing— The pure, bright thoughts that thrill his yearning breast, The golden visions that around are flinging, Their airy spells of future love and rest. But there is one upon the ground reposing, With curious gaze, yet wild, irreverent air, Whose fallen deer-skin her full charms disclosing, With beaded arms, and crimson braided hair, Declares her kindred to thy own wild race, The swift-foot wanderer of thy early day; When by Powhatan’s stream thy footstep’s trace Told, where like fawns ye frolick’d in your play.