From his early years, Park had cultivated a taste for literature. The parishioners of Westerkirk have long been commended for their inquisitive turn of mind; many years ago they established a subscription library, to which Mr Telford, the celebrated engineer, who was a native of the parish, bequeathed a legacy of a thousand pounds. The rustic poet suddenly emerged from his obscurity, when he was encouraged to publish a volume entitled "The Vale of Esk, and other Poems," Edin., 1833, 12mo. About the same period he became a contributor of poetry to Blackwood's Magazine, and a writer of prose articles in the provincial newspapers. On the death of Dr Brown, in 1837, he took, in conjunction with a son-in-law, a lease of the farm of Holmains, in the parish of Dalton, and now enjoyed greater leisure for the prosecution of his literary tastes. In May 1843, he undertook the editorship of the Dumfries Standard newspaper; but had just commenced his duties, when he was seized with an illness which proved fatal. He died at Holmains on the 5th June 1843. His widow still lives in Eskdalemuir; and of their numerous family, some have emigrated to America.
Park's compositions were not strictly lyrical, but "The Patriot's Song," which we have selected from his volume, seems worthy of a place in the national minstrelsy. His style is smooth and flowing, and he evinces a passionate admiration of the beautiful in nature.
THE PATRIOT'S SONG.
Shall I leave thee, thou land to my infancy dear,
Ere I know aught of toil or of woe,
For the clime of the stranger, the solitude drear,
And a thousand endearments forego?
Shall I give my lone bosom a prey to its strife?
Must I friendship's just claims disallow?
No; her breathings can cool the hot fever of life,
As the breeze fans the sea-beaten brow.
'Tis said that the comforts of plenty abound
In the wide-spreading plains of the west;
That there an asylum of peace shall be found
Where the care-stricken wanderer may rest.
That nature uncheck'd there displays all her pride
In the forest unfading and deep;
That the river rolls onward its ocean-like tide,
Encircling broad realms in its sweep.
But is there a spot in that far distant land
Where fancy or feeling may dwell?
Or how shall the heart of the exile expand,
Untouch'd by Society's spell?
Though thy children, old Albyn! adversity bear,
As forlorn o'er thy mountains they roam,
Yet I 've found, what in vain I should seek for elsewhere—
I have found 'mong these mountains a home.