Settest thou, round about, the sacrifice a-flare?For, of all gods the city-swaying,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 away