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: #CA3342
RGB: 202 51 66
RGB: 202 51 66
HEX: #53616C
RGB: 83 97 108
RGB: 83 97 108
HEX: #C42937
RGB: 196 41 55
RGB: 196 41 55
HEX: #DA3E49
RGB: 218 62 73
RGB: 218 62 73
HEX: #F64160
RGB: 246 65 96
RGB: 246 65 96
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."
