From the Greek of HOMER. 
Translation of ALEXANDER POPE.

HECTOR TO HIS WIFE.

     FROM THE ILIAD, BOOK VI.

[The following extract is given as showing a more modern style of translation.  It embraces the bracketed portion of the foregoing from Pope’s version.]

I too have thought of all this, dear wife, but I fear the reproaches
Both of the Trojan youths and the long-robed maidens of Troja,
If like a cowardly churl I should keep me aloof from the combat: 
Nor would my spirit permit; for well I have learnt to be valiant,
Fighting aye ’mong the first of the Trojans marshalled in battle,
Striving to keep the renown of my sire and my own unattainted. 
Well, too well, do I know,—­both my mind and my spirit agreeing,
That there will be a day when sacred Troja shall perish. 
Priam will perish too, and the people of Priam, the spear-armed. 
Still, I have not such care for the Trojans doomed to destruction,
No, nor for Hecuba’s self, nor for Priam, the monarch, my father,
Nor for my brothers’ fate, who, though they be many and valiant,
All in the dust may lie low by the hostile spears of Achaia,
As for thee, when some youth of the brazen-mailed Achaeans
Weeping shall bear thee away, and bereave thee forever of freedom.

Translation of E.C.  HAWTREY.

TO LUCASTA.

  If to be absent were to be
      Away from thee;
    Or that, when I am gone,
    You or I were alone;
  Then, my Lucasta, might I crave
Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave.

  But I’ll not sigh one blast or gale
      To swell my sail,
    Or pay a tear to ’suage
    The foaming blue-god’s rage;
  For, whether he will let me pass
Or no, I’m still as happy as I was.

  Though seas and lands be ’twixt us both,
      Our faith and troth,
    Like separated souls,
    All time and space controls: 
  Above the highest sphere we meet,
Unseen, unknown; and greet as angels greet.

  So, then, we do anticipate
      Our after-fate,
  And are alive i’ the skies,
    If thus our lips and eyes
  Can speak like spirits unconfined
In heaven,—­their earthly bodies left behind.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

TO HER ABSENT SAILOR.

     FROM “THE TENT ON THE BEACH.”

Her window opens to the bay,
On glistening light or misty gray,
And there at dawn and set of day
  In prayer she kneels: 
“Dear Lord!” she saith, “to many a home
From wind and wave the wanderers come;
I only see the tossing foam
  Of stranger keels.

“Blown out and in by summer gales,
The stately ships, with crowded sails,
And sailors leaning o’er their rails,
  Before me glide;
They come, they go, but nevermore,
Spice-laden from the Indian shore,
I see his swift-winged Isidore
  The waves divide.