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: #0C0E10
RGB: 12 14 16
RGB: 12 14 16
HEX: #261F1A
RGB: 38 31 26
RGB: 38 31 26
HEX: #0D2F38
RGB: 13 47 56
RGB: 13 47 56
HEX: #EBB45D
RGB: 235 180 93
RGB: 235 180 93
HEX: #C5C0A0
RGB: 197 192 160
RGB: 197 192 160
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."
