As when the south wind shrouds a mountaintop In vapors that awake the shepherd’s fear⁠— A surer covert for the thief than night⁠— And round him one can only see as far As one can hurl a stone⁠—such was the cloud Of dust that from the warriors’ trampling feet Rose round their rapid march and filled the air.

Now drew they near each other, face to face, And Paris in the Trojan van pressed on, In presence like a god. A leopard’s hide Was thrown across his shoulders, and he bore A crooked bow and falchion. Brandishing Two brazen-pointed javelins, he defied To mortal fight the bravest of the Greeks.