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 loth,
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 to-day.
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.