This touch’d his generous heart, and from the tent Along the shore with hasty strides he went; Soon as he came, where, on the crowded strand, The public mart and courts of justice stand, Where the tall fleet of great Ulysses lies, And altars to the guardian gods arise; There, sad, he met the brave Euaemon’s son, Large painful drops from all his members run; An arrow’s head yet rooted in his wound, The sable blood in circles mark’d the ground. As faintly reeling he confess’d the smart, Weak was his pace, but dauntless was his heart. Divine compassion touch’d Patroclus’ breast, Who, sighing, thus his bleeding friend address’d: