Memnon

Where Morning first appears,
Waking the rathe flowers in their Eastern bed,
Aurora still with her ambrosial tears,
Weeps for her Memnon dead.

Him the Hesperides
Nursed on the marge of their enchanted shore,
And still the smile that then the Mother wore
Dimples the orient seas.

He died; and lo, the while
The fire consumed his ashes, glorious things
With joyous songs, and rainbow-tinted wings,
Rose from the funeral pile.

He died; and yet became
A music; and his Theban image broke
Into sweet sounds that with each sunrise spoke
The Mighty Mother’s name.

O type, thy truth declare!
Who is the Child of the Melodious Morn?
Who bids the ashes earth receives—adorn
With new-born choirs the air?

What can the Statue be
That ever answers with enchanted voices
Each rising sun that on its front rejoices?
Speak!—“I am Poetry!”