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: #253235
RGB: 37 50 53
RGB: 37 50 53
HEX: #76959A
RGB: 118 149 154
RGB: 118 149 154
HEX: #351D15
RGB: 53 29 21
RGB: 53 29 21
HEX: #BBB09F
RGB: 187 176 159
RGB: 187 176 159
HEX: #EEE5D0
RGB: 238 229 208
RGB: 238 229 208
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."
