We Had Our Own Hero and Leander, Sung by Alexander Nikolayevich Radishchev in "Journey from Saint Petersburg to Moscow"

The Valdai lake, upon which this town is built, will remain memorable in the tale of a monk who sacrificed his life for the sake of his mistress. A verst and a half from the town, in the midst of the lake, on an island, stands the Iversky Monastery, built by the celebrated Patriarch Nikon. One of the monks of this monastery, visiting Valdai, fell in love with the daughter of a certain Valdai resident. Soon their love became mutual, soon they strove to consummate it. Having once tasted its delights, they were powerless to resist its urging. But their condition set a barrier to it. The lover could not often absent himself from his monastery; the mistress could not visit the cell of her lover. But their ardour overcame everything; it made of the lustful monk a fearless man and gave him strength almost beyond nature. This new Leander, that he might enjoy delight daily in the arms of his mistress, no sooner did night cover all that is visible with its black pall than he would quietly leave his cell and, casting off his vestments, swim across the lake to the opposite shore, where he was received into the embrace of his beloved. A bath-house, and in it the pleasures of love, were made ready for him; and in them he forgot the danger and labour of the crossing and the fear lest his absence become known. Some hours before dawn he would return to his cell. Thus he passed a long time in these perilous crossings, repaying with nocturnal delight the tedium of his daytime confinement. But fate put an end to his amorous exploits. One night, when this intrepid lover had set out across the waves to behold his beloved, a wind suddenly arose, contrary to him, as he was in the middle of his course. All his strength was feeble against the enraged waters. In vain did he weary himself, straining his muscles; in vain did he raise his voice that he might be heard in his peril. Seeing the impossibility of reaching the shore, he resolved to return to his monastery, so as, with a following wind, to reach it the more easily. But scarcely had he turned his course when the waves, overpowering his wearied muscles, drowned him in the deep. The next morning his body was found on the far shore. Were I writing a poem on this, I would present to my reader his mistress in despair. But that would be superfluous here. Everyone knows that for a mistress, be it only for the first moment, it is grievous to learn of the death of her beloved. I do not know, either, whether this new Hero flung herself into the lake, or whether on the following night she again heated the bath-house for a traveller. The chronicle of love declares that the belles of Valdai did not die of love... unless in hospital.