  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!" |
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