FREED from the cares that daily throng my breast,
Again, beneath my native shades I rest.

These shades, where lightly fled my youthful day,
Ere fancy bowed to reason's boasted sway.
-Untaught the toils of busier life to bear,
The fool's impertinence, the proud man's sneer;
Sick of the world, to these retreats I fly,
Devoid of art my early reed to try:
To paint the prospects which around me rise,
What time the cloudless sun descends the skies,
Each latent beauty of the landscape trace,

Fond of the charms that deck my native place.

* An agreeable eminence near Liverpool, which commanded the prospect described

in the following Poem, written by Roscoe at the age of sixteen.

The shades of GRONGAR bloom secure of fame; EDGE-HILL to JAGO owes its lasting name; When WINDSOR-FOREST's loveliest scenes decay, Still shall they live in POPE's unrivalled lay. Led on by Hope an equal theme I choose:

-O might the subject boast an equal Muse ! Then should her name the force of time defy, When sunk in ruin LIVERPOOL shall lie.

How numerous now her thronging buildings rise! What varied objects strike the wandering eyes! Where rise yon masts her crowded navies ride, And the broad rampire checks the beating tide; Along the beach her spacious streets extend, Her areas open, and her spires ascend; In loud confusion mingled sounds arise, The docks re-echoing with the seamen's cries, The massy hammer sounding from afar, The bell slow-tolling, and the rattling car; And thundering oft the cannon's horrid roar, In lessening echoes dies along the shore.

There with the genuine glow of COMMERCE fired,
Her anxious votaries plod the streets untired;
Each calm, sequestered scene of life despise,
And all those sweets the vacant hour supplies,
When wearied study slacks her rigid rein,

And scarce one loitering thought disturbs the brain :
-Lost to those arts, the happier few admire
The Painter's pencil, and the Poet's lyre;

The soft emotions gentler bosoms move,

The voice of Friendship, and the smiles of Love;
To all that soothes the painful hour of strife;
To all that graces, all that sweetens life.

Ah! why, ye Sons of Wealth, with ceaseless toil,
Add gold to gold, and swell the shining pile?
Your general course to happiness ye bend,
Why then to gain the means neglect the end?
To purchase peace requires a scanty store,—

-O spurn the grovelling wish that pants for more!—
And thirst not with the same unconquered rage,
Till nature whitens in the frost of age;

But rather, on the present hour rely,

And catch the happier moments ere they fly;
And whilst the spring of life each bliss inspires,
Improve its gifts, and feed the social fires:
Let Friendship soften, Love her charms disclose,
Peace guard your hours, and sweeten your repose.
Yet not regardless how your joys endure,
Let watchful Prudence make those joys secure.

Far as the eye can trace the prospect round,
The splendid tracks of opulence are found:
Yet scarce an hundred annual rounds have run,
Since first the fabric of this power begun ;
His noble waves inglorious, MERSEY rolled,
Nor felt those waves by labouring art controlled;
Along his side a few small cots were spread,
His finny brood their humble tenants fed;

At opening dawn, with fraudful nets supplied,
The paddling skiff would brave his spacious tide,
Ply round the shores, nor tempt the dangerous main,
But seek ere night the friendly port again.

Now o'er the wondering world her name resounds, From Northern climes, to INDIA's distant bounds. -Where'er his shores the broad ATLANTIC laves; Where'er the BALTIC rolls his wintry waves; Where'er the honoured flood extends his tide, That clasps SICILIA like a favoured bride; Whose waves in ages past so oft have bore The storm of battle on the Punic shore; Have washed the banks of GREECE's learned bowers, And viewed at distance ROME's imperial towers; In every clime her prosperous fleets are known, She makes the wealth of every clime her own: GREENLAND for her its bulky whale resigns, And temperate GALLIA rears her generous vines; 'Midst warm IBERIA citron-orchards blow, And the ripe fruitage bends the labouring bough: The OCCIDENT a richer tribute yields, Far different produce swells their cultured fields; Hence the strong cordial that inflames the brain, The honeyed sweetness of the juicy cane, The vegetative fleece, the azure dye,

And every product of a warmer sky.

There AFRIC's swarthy sons their toils repeat, Beneath the fervors of the noon-tide heat;

Torn from each joy that crowned their native soil,
No sweet reflections mitigate their toil;
From morn, to eve, by rigorous hands opprest,
Dull fly their hours, of every hope unblest.
Till, broke with labour, helpless, and forlorn,
From their weak grasp the lingering morsel torn;
The reed-built hovel's friendly shade denied;
The jest of folly, and the scorn of pride;
Drooping beneath meridian suns they lie,
Lift the faint head, and bend the imploring eye;
Till Death, in kindness, from the tortured breast
Calls the free spirit to the realms of rest.

Shame to Mankind! But shame to BRITONS most, Who all the sweets of Liberty can boast;

Yet, deaf to every human claim, deny
That bliss to others, which themselves enjoy:
Life's bitter draught with harsher bitter fill;
Blast every joy, and add to every ill;
The trembling limbs with galling iron bind,
Nor loose the heavier bondage of the mind.

Yet whence these horrors? this inhuman rage,
That brands with blackest infamy the age?
Is it, our varied interests disagree,

And BRITAIN sinks if AFRIC's sons be free?
-No-Hence a few superfluous stores we claim,
That tempt our avarice, but increase our shame;
The sickly palate touch with more delight,
Or swell the senseless riot of the night.—