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“Self taught and self directed, he obtained, as a Poet and an Historian,

a Critic and a Philanthropist, an imperishable name."



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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,
Tbe 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 råmpire 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

e 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 ;

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