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: #958575
RGB: 149 133 117
RGB: 149 133 117
HEX: #B7AD94
RGB: 183 173 148
RGB: 183 173 148
HEX: #D92030
RGB: 217 32 48
RGB: 217 32 48
HEX: #AE8A7E
RGB: 174 138 126
RGB: 174 138 126
HEX: #E5C77F
RGB: 229 199 127
RGB: 229 199 127
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."
