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: #384857
RGB: 56 72 87
RGB: 56 72 87
HEX: #A4684E
RGB: 164 104 78
RGB: 164 104 78
HEX: #9B402E
RGB: 155 64 46
RGB: 155 64 46
HEX: #AE8A7E
RGB: 174 138 126
RGB: 174 138 126
HEX: #B7AD94
RGB: 183 173 148
RGB: 183 173 148
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."
