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: #543951
RGB: 84 57 81
RGB: 84 57 81
HEX: #4E7771
RGB: 78 119 113
RGB: 78 119 113
HEX: #83922D
RGB: 131 146 45
RGB: 131 146 45
HEX: #A86F66
RGB: 168 111 102
RGB: 168 111 102
HEX: #BFA956
RGB: 191 169 86
RGB: 191 169 86
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."
