Those supernal, those infernal, Those of the fields’, those of the mart’s obeying, — The altars blaze with gifts; And here and there, heaven-high the torch uplifts Flame-medicated with persuasions mild, With foul admixture unbeguiled — Of holy unguent, from the clotted chrism Brought from the palace, safe in its abysm. Of these things, speaking what may be indeed Both possible and lawful to concede, Healer do thou become! — of this solicitude Which, now, stands plainly forth of evil mood, And, then . . . but from oblations, hope, to-day Gracious appearing, wards away From soul the insatiate care, The sorrow at my breast, devouring there! CHOROS. Empowered am I to sing The omens, what their force which, journeying, Rejoiced the potentates: (For still, from God, inflates My breast song-suasion: age, Born to the business, still such war can wage) — How the fierce bird against the Teukris land Despatched, with spear and executing hand, The Achaian’s two-throned empery—o’er Hellas ’ youth Two rulers with one mind: The birds’ king to these kings of ships, on high, — The black sort, and the sort that’s white behind, — Appearing by the palace, on the spear-throw side, In right sky-regions, visible far and wide, —