Carl von Bodenhausen, “Hero and Leander”
Sports Saturday
Here’s a poem I’ve been saving up ever since a friend of mine, Leslie Richardson, swam the Dardanelles (or the Hellespont) this past August. I think she’s older than I am (and I’m 62) so she wasn’t surprised that the currents ultimately proved too strong for her. Unlike Lord Byron in 1810, she didn’t make it all the way across.
Byron swam the mile or so across the strait in order to duplicate the feat of Leander, the figure from Greek mythology who nightly visited Hero, a priestess of Aphrodite. Byron was tremendously proud of having made it all the way across, commenting, “I plume myself on this achievement more than I could possibly for any kind of glory, political, poetical, rhetorical.” Leander’s swim had a far grimmer conclusion: when a storm blows out Hero’s light, Leander loses his way and drowns, prompting Hero to throw herself into the sea.
The strong currents got Byron wondering whether Leander would have been up to lovemaking by the time he reached Hero—or to use his words, “whether Leander’s conjugal power must not have been exhausted in his passage to Paradise.” In his poem about his accomplishment, Byron probably intends for Venus’ “current” to function as a sexual double entendre.
The poem has more of the comic self-mockery of Don Juan than the dark sublimity of Childe Harold. But don’t be fooled by Byron’s casual poem. He’s humble bragging.
To be sure, the accomplishment is well worth bragging about. Leslie says that most of her fellow swimmers came up short.
Written After Swimming From Sestos To Abydos
By Lord Byron
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.