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 upliftsFlame-medicated with persuasions mild,With foul admixture unbeguiled —Of holy unguent, from the clotted chrismBrought from the palace, safe in its abysm.Of these things, speaking what may be indeedBoth possible and lawful to concede,Healer do thou become! — of this solicitudeWhich, now, stands plainly forth of evil mood,And, then . . . but from oblations, hope, to-dayGracious appearing, wards awayFrom soul the insatiate care,The sorrow at my breast, devouring there!

CHOROS.Empowered am I to singThe omens, what their force which, journeying,Rejoiced the potentates:(For still, from God, inflatesMy breast song-suasion: age,Born to the business, still such war can wage)— How the fierce bird against the Teukris landDespatched, with spear and executing hand,The Achaian’s two-throned empery—o’er Hellas’ youthTwo 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, —