The poem
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.
Lord Byron is the man! I love how he is good at poetry and swimming! If I was Lord Byron I'd totally rock the socks off of everything, just like he rocked the socks off of lots of women, and men too!
The previous comment shows a refinement of sensibility I find hard to match.
I re-read Byron's poem today after many decades. What I'd not hitherto appreciated was the poet's mischievious wit. The rhyme of 'plague you' with 'ague' in the final stanza is very naughty, and undercuts the apparent seriousness of the poem.
Thus, not only did Byron rock, he may also have made his peers roll with mirth. Know what I mean?