of deceiving,
By the strong pride of an unfeeling will,
The cold and cunning world in its believing--
What boots it all? The heart will suffer still.

Comes there not o'er thy spirit, when 'tis dreaming
In the lone hours of the voiceless night,
When the sweet past like a new present seeming,
Brings back those rosy hours of love and light?
Comes there not o'er thy dreaming spirit then
Delicious joy--although 'tis but a vision--
That we have met, caressed and kissed again,
And revel still among those sweets Elysian?

Comes there not o'er thy spirit when it wakes,
And finds, with sleep, the vision too hath parted
A lone depression, till thy proud heart aches,
And from thy burning orb the tear hath started?
And with sad memories through thy bosom thronging,
Within thy heart's most secret deep recesses
Feel'st thou not then an agony of longing
To dream again of those divine caresses?

To dream them o'er and o'er, or deem them real,
While penitence is speaking in thy sighs--
For this, unlike thy dream, is not ideal--
It brings the pallid cheek, the moistened eyes:
Then, lady, mock not love so deeply hearted,
With that light seeming which deceit can give--
The love I promised thee, when last we parted,
Shall never be another's while _you_ live.

[Illustration: Engraved by W. E. Tu
A PIC NIC ON OLDEN TIME.
Engraved Expressly for Graham's magazine]

A PIC-NIC IN OLDEN TIME.

BY QUEVEDO.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Joy is as old as the universe, yet as young as a June rose: and a
pic-nic has of all places been its delight, since the little quiet
family _fetes champetres_ of Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden. So it
is of no especial consequence in what reign of what kingdom our clever
artist has laid his scene--and sooth to say, from the diversified and
pleasantly incongruous costume and accessories of the picture, it
might puzzle an uninitiated to tell. But we, who are in the secrets of
Maga, and to whom the very brain-workings of her poets and painters
are as palpable as the crystal curdling of the lake beneath the filmy
breath of the Frost King, of course know all about it, and will
whisper in your ear the key to the pretty harmonies of wood and sky
and happy faces which he has spread out in a sort of visible cavatina,
or dear little love-song, beneath your eye.

It was a g