King of the cold, white scalps,
He lifts his head at that close tread,
The eagle of the Alps.
Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove?
Admires the jay the insect's gilded wings?
Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings?
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No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.
HEX: #351420
RGB: 53 20 32
RGB: 53 20 32
HEX: #C5542D
RGB: 197 84 45
RGB: 197 84 45
HEX: #C79416
RGB: 199 148 22
RGB: 199 148 22
HEX: #5D9576
RGB: 93 149 118
RGB: 93 149 118
HEX: #E7D78C
RGB: 231 215 140
RGB: 231 215 140
That once an eagle, stricken with a dart,
Said, when he saw the fashion of the shaft,
"With our own feathers, not by others' hands,
Are we now smitten."
