George Gordon,
Lord Byron (1788-1824)
If, in the month of dark
December,
Leander, who was nightly wont
(What
maid will not the
tale remember?)
To cross thy stream, broad
Hellespont!
If, when the wintry
tempest roared,
He sped to
Hero, nothing loath,
And thus of old thy
current poured,
Fair
Venus! how I pity both!
For me,
degenerate modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of
May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,
And think I've done a
feat today.
But since he crossed the rapid
tide,
According to the doubtful
story,
To
woo -and -
Lord knows what beside,
And swam for
Love, as I for
Glory;
'Twere hard to say who fared the best:
Sad
mortals! thus the
gods still
plague you!
He lost his
labour, I my jest;
For he was
drowned, and I've the
ague.