Lofty against our Western dawn uprises Achilles:
  He among heroes alone singeth or toucheth the lyre.
Few, and dimmed by grief, are the days that to him are appointed!
  Love he shall know but to lose, life but to cast it away.
Dreaming of peace and a bride, he sees not the foes at the portal:
  Paris, a traitor to love; Phœbus, accorder of song!