As matter of mere amusement, Mr. Coke’s last chapter is his best. It is crammed with diverting stories of “smart” Yankees and other originals whom he encountered in California. The whole book, although in parts a little drawn out, does him credit, and will doubtless be extensively read and well liked. For various classes it has features of attractive interest. The emigrant, the gold-seeker, the sportsman, the mining speculator, the lover of adventure for mere adventure’s sake, will all derive pleasure from its pages, and occasionally glean from them a hint worth remembering. ----- [2] A Ride over the Rocky Mountains to Oregon and California. By the Hon. Henry J. Coke. London: 1852. * * * * * HOMER. BY TRUEMAN S. PERRY. Upon the rocks, the wave-worn rocks of Chios, Sat an old beggar—hoar and bent was he— Still murmuring to himself, the lone winds drifting His words, like leaves about a withered tree. Patiently all the day had he been standing Where pour the ways their turbid tides along, Meekly had borne the coldness, and the rudeness, The jeers and jostlings of the thoughtless throng. And now at night no home or friend received him; Few e’er had loved him, his nor cot nor hall, For he had always walked apart from others, A mark of marvel, or of jest, to all. Men lightly heeded him, poor helpless dotard, And few did note that face so high and sad, And fewer yet gleaned up his muttered measures, And many said the strange old man was mad. Each bowing low, to gods that saw not, heard not, He’d left the herd of folly, gain and pride, When by its tender kiss, and kind low whisper, He wist the coming of the even-tide. Had he come forth to look on rock and wild-wood, Bathed in the amber light of setting day? Was it to watch the rain-bow glowing, fading, In the light leapings of the silver spray? Vainly did even and her fairer sister Pour all their glories on his sightless eye, Long had he ceased to mark the sun’s hot splendor, The wave’s fleet sparkle and the cloud’s rich dye. Low on his shriveled palms he bows his forehead, With beard white waving round his loosened zone, While strains majestic from the ocean’s bosom Spake to the mightier stirring in his own. The towers of Illion, and the Argive ramparts, The keel-plowed sand he scans with inward eye, And now he hears the sound of many myriads Rushing along in thundering onset by. Bright ’mid the serried spears he sees Peleides, The sons of Atreus, Diomed’s swift car, The goddess-born, and Hector, and the Xanthus, Rolling his red and spumy waves afar.