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.…