08/13/2026
I sing of Memnon, glorious son of Dawn,
the dark-skinned king whom radiant Eos bore
to Tithonus of the tireless voice,
when first she left the streams of Oceanus
and rose in saffron robes to light the world.
From Ethiopia’s far and sun-scorched land
he came, a warrior peerless among men,
tall as a god, with strength like Ares’ own,
and beauty that the gods themselves admired.
Around his head the morning light still clung,
a gift from her who opens heaven’s gates.
When Priam’s city groaned beneath the war,
Memnon led forth his host of spear-famed men,
black as the night yet bright with burnished bronze.
He struck the Argives down like summer grain
before the reaper’s blade; many a soul
he sent to Hades, grieving Thetis’ son
until Achilles met him face to face.
There by the Scaean gates the two contended,
god-born against god-born, while Zeus looked on
and weighed their fates upon the golden scales.
The son of Peleus triumphed; Memnon fell.
Then Eos, stricken, veiled her shining face
and would not open heaven’s eastern gates
for Helios, leaving the world in prolonged night.
Gods and men alike lifted their voices in grief;
the earth itself seemed to mourn the fallen king.
So deep was the lament that Zeus was moved,
and from his throne on high he granted Memnon
immortality, that he might live forever
among the blessed, no longer bound by death.
From the hero’s pyre rose a flock of birds—
the Memnonides—that every year return
to circle above his tomb and cry aloud,
mourning the warrior whom the Dawn still weeps.
Hail, Memnon, deathless king of Ethiopians,
child of the golden Morning! Be gracious still,
and grant me strength of limb and clarity of song.
I shall remember you in every hymn
I raise to those who walk the shining sky.
