WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS.

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.