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A dialogue between a lover, whom accident obliges to leave his Mistress, and Reason.

"Lover. Weep not, nor backward turn your beams,

Fond eyes; sad sighs lock in your breath;

Lest on this wind, or in those streams,

My griev'd soul fly, or sail to death.
Fortune destroys me if I stay,
Love kills me if I go away;

Since Love and Fortune both are blind,
Come Reason and resolve my doubtful mind.

"Reason. Fly, and blind Fortune be thy guide,
And 'gainst the blinder god rebel;
Thy love-sick heart shall not reside

Where scorn and self-will'd error dwell.
Where entrance unto truth is barr'd,

Where love and faith find no reward;

For my just hand may sometime move

The wheel of fortune, not the sphere of love."

A lady rescued from death by a knight, who in the instant leaves her, complains thus.

"Oh whither is my fair sun fled,
Bearing his light, not heat, away?
If thou repose in the moist bed

Of the sea-queen, bring back the day
To our dark clime, and thou shalt lie
Bath'd in the sea flows from mine eye.

Upon what whirlwind didst thou ride

Hence, yet remain fix'd in my heart,
From me and to me; fled and tied?

Dark riddles of the amorous art;
Love lent thee wings to fly, so he
Unfeather'd, now must rest with me.

Help, help, brave youth, I burn, I bleed,
The cruel god, with bow and brand,
Pursues the life thy valour freed,

Disarm him with thy conquering hand;
And that thou may'st the wild boy tame
Give me his dart, keep thou his flame."

The commencement of the piece "To A. D. unreasonably distrustful of her own beauty," is ingenious.

"Fair Doris break thy glass, it hath perplext
With a dark comment, beautie's clearest text,
It hath not told thy face's story true,

But brought false copies to thy jealous view.
No colour, feature, lovely air, or grace,
That ever yet adorn'd a beauteous face,
But thou may'st read in thine, or justly doubt
Thy glass hath been suborn'd to leave it out,
But if it offer to thy nice survey

A spot, a stain, a blemish, or decay,
It not belongs to thee, the treacherous light
Or faithless stone abuse thy credulous sight.
Perhaps the magic of thy face hath wrought
Upon th' enchanted crystal, and so brought
Fantastic shadows to delude thine eyes
With airy repercussive sorceries.
Or else th' enamoured image pines away
For love of the fair object, and so may
Wax pale and wan, and though the substance grow
Lively and fresh, that may consume with woe;
Give then no faith to the false specular stone,
But let thy beauties by th' effects be known:
Look (sweetest Doris) on my love-sick heart,
In that true mirror see how fair thou art.
There, by Love's never-erring pencil drawn
Shalt thou behold thy face, like th' early dawn,
Shoot through the shady covert of thy hair,
Enameling and perfuming the calm air
With pearls and roses, till thy suns display
Their lids, and let out the imprison'd day.
Whilst Delphic priests (enlighten'd by their theme)
In amorous numbers court thy golden beam,
And from love's altars clouds of sighs arise
In smoaking incense to adore thine eyes.
If then love flow from beauty as th' effect,
How canst thou the resistless cause suspect?

Who would not brand that fool, that should contend
There were no fire, where smoke and flames ascend?"

A few stanzas only are quotable from "The Compliment," but they are rich in expression.

"I do not love thee for that fair
Rich fan of thy most curious hair;
Though the wires thereof be drawn
Finer than the threads of lawn,

And are softer than the leaves
On which the subtle spinner weaves.

I do not love thee for those flowers
Growing on thy cheeks (love's bowers ;)
Though such cunning them hath spread,
None can paint them white and red :
Love's golden arrows thence are shot,
Yet for them I love thee not.

I do not love thee for those soft,
Red coral lips I've kiss'd so oft;
Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard
To speech, whence music still is heard ;
Though from those lips a kiss being taken,
Might tyrants melt, and death awaken.

I do not love thee, O my fairest,
For that richest, for that rarest
Silver pillar, which stands under
Thy sound head, that globe of wonder;
Though that neck be whiter far,
Than towers of polish'd ivory are."

ART. IV. A genuine Narrative of the memorable Life and Actions of John Everett, who formerly kept the Cock AleHouse in the Old Bailey; and lately the Tap in the Fleet Prison, and was Executed at Tyburn on Friday, the 20th day of February, 1729-30, &c. Written by Himself when under Condemnation, and in his Cell in Newgate, and published at his own request. London, 1730.

It cannot be supposed, that the autobiography of a man executed at Tyburn can possess many literary charms. Nor does there at first sight appear a very sufficient reason for rescuing from oblivion a catalogue of crimes, the memory of which is decayed with the person of him who committed them. But it is always interesting to the philosopher to see human nature under every point of view. Such a man considers the being, as the subject of an experiment, who puts himself in a situation, in which the effects of extraordinary circumstances may be most easily seen. In this spirit, physicians administer

poison to dogs; and, did not the dose involve consequences too horrible to mention, they would wish to see the human frame under the action of the most trying medicaments. It is the same in the moral world. We feel naturally inclined to watch the effect of crime in hardening and ossifying the feelings of the heart, and observe with deep interest the workings of nature, which occasionally resists its fatal operation, and shows itself in moments of remorse, or in a sudden return to the innocence of youth, or the kindness of the primitive disposition. Nor is it disagreeable to find the buoyancy and elasticity of the spirit sometimes successfully contending against the gloomy circumstances of a life of infamy; the distrust, suspicion, and danger of vice-to watch the carelessness which overlooks them, or the fortitude which surmounts them. Generosity and magnanimity, though in a robber, do not lose their nature, and the discriminating mind can admire the good, without losing its abhorrence of the bad. We are all creatures of circumstance, and no man, however evil, is himself the entire cause of his iniquity; and it may be added, that it would be a most difficult task to discover the criminal who had not something good in him; some moments of tenderness, some meltings at early recollections, some strong affections, some faithful attachments, some virtuous impulses, some glimpses of high and generous feeling. The subject of the present narrative is as little remarkable for these softenings of nature, as any of his class we ever met with; but he has qualifications which distinguish him from the ordinary herd of those men whose deaths may be said to be more edifying than their lives. His parentage and education fitted him for a rank considerably above that he filled, and into which he fell by an early desertion of his friends, and the master with whom his father had placed him. But the traits which most distinguish him, are the indifference with which he perpetrated the greatest crimes, and the nonchalance with which he relates them; his exceeding blindness to their real atrocity, and the amusing manner in which he asks forgiveness of them, as if he were begging pardon in an unceremonious fashion for the most trifling peccadillo. His courage, dexterity, and presence of mind, were alike glorious, and his spirit not inferior to that which dictated the achievements of the great Mr. Wild, to whom, indeed, it is an injustice to compare him; for Everett disdained a mean action, and, in the commission of his crimes, or, as he calls it, in the practice of his profession, he ever behaved himself like a gentleman, abhorred cruelty, and instead of overreaching or undermining his friends, would attack two to one single-handed and unaided. The glory of the class of men to whom he belonged is departed. The heroes of Hounslow Heath and Wimbledon Common no longer take the

air, the very memory of their exploits is fast fading, or only recorded in the Newgate Calendar, or preserved, like those of Guy of Warwick, or Robin Hood, in the traditions of the vulgar. Certain it is, that we are very far from regretting the departure of these worthies, and much more gladly contemplate them in the distance than at hand. But time, with his consecrating hand, always throws a radiance over the exploits of the bold and the undaunted, and we celebrate the names of many a hero who would have been a most disagreeable neighbour. The outlaw of ancient days is the subject of romantic tales, while the outlaw of to-day is a vulgar criminal, hardly meeting with his share of pity. Perhaps future ages may render classical the deeds of those younger sons of good families, who, induced by necessity, rather than choice," took to the road" in search of money and adventure-those men who were so gallant to the female sex, so generous to the poor, so manful in their contests, so well caparisoned, and so nobly equipped.

But to turn from these retrospective speculations upon the glory of days gone by, to the composition before us, John Everett thus records his initiation into the profession of a high

wayman.

"As a shelter against misfortune, I was obliged to list myself in the Foot-guards there. I served some time in my Lord Albemarle's company. I there unhappily fell into company with one Richard Bird, at the above said Mr. Corth's; and after having conversed together on the affairs of life, and acquainting me of some particular advantages in life which might be had, provided I could be trusted; I took the hint readily, and, in short, we agreed to take to the road, entirely confiding in each other."

We do not know what our readers may think of the following description, but it appears to us to be very clever, at least for a gentleman of Mr. Everett's calling.

"Soon after our last achievement, my old comrade, Dick Bird, and I, stopped a coach in the evening, on Hounslow Heath, in which, (amongst other passengers,) were two precise but courageous quakers, who had the assurance to call us sons of violence; and refusing to comply with our reasonable demands, jumped out of the coach to give battle, whereupon we began a sharp engagement, and showed them the arm of flesh was too strong for the spirit, which seemed to move very powerfully within them. After a short contest, though we never offered to fire, (for I ever abhorred barbarity, or the more heinous sin of murder,) through the cowardly persuasions of their fellow-travellers, they submitted, though sore against their inclinations.

"As they were stout fellows, and men every inch of them, we scorned to abuse them, and contented ourselves with rifling them of the little mammon of unrighteousness which they had about them, which

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