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: "Ah, hapless leaders of the Grecian host! Thus must ye perish on a barbarous coast? Is this your fate, to glut the dogs with gore, Far from your friends, and from your native shore? Say, great Eurypylus! shall Greece yet stand? Resists she yet the raging Hector's hand? Or are her heroes doom'd to die with shame, And this the period of our wars and fame?" Eurypylus replies: "No more, my friend; Greece is no more! this day her glories end; Even to the ships victorious Troy pursues, Her force increasing as her toil renews. Those chiefs, that used her utmost rage to meet, Lie pierced with wounds, and bleeding in the fleet. But, thou, Patroclus! act a friendly part, Lead to my ships, and draw this deadly dart; With lukewarm water wash the gore away; With healing balms the raging smart allay, Such as sage Chiron, sire of pharmacy, Once taught Achilles, and Achilles thee. Of two famed surgeons, Podalirius stands This hour surrounded by the Trojan bands; And great Machaon, wounded in his tent, Now wants that succour which so oft he lent." To him the chief: "What then remains to do? The event of things the gods alone can view. Charged by Achilles' great command I fly, And bear with haste the Pylian king's reply: But thy distress this instant claims relief." He said, and in his arms upheld the chief. The slaves their master's slow approach survey'd, And hides of oxen on the floor display'd: There stretch'd at length the wounded hero lay; Patroclus cut the forky steel away: Then in his hands a bitter root he bruised; The wound he wash'd, the styptic juice infused. The closing flesh that in