These words soft pity in the chief inspire, Touch’d with the dear remembrance of his sire. Then with his hand (as prostrate still he lay) The old man’s cheek he gently turn’d away. Now each by turns indulged the gush of woe; And now the mingled tides together flow: This low on earth, that gently bending o’er; A father one, and one a son deplore: But great Achilles different passions rend, And now his sire he mourns, and now his friend. The infectious softness through the heroes ran; One universal solemn shower began; They bore as heroes, but they felt as man.