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: #6988E1
RGB: 105 136 225
RGB: 105 136 225
HEX: #8FA8F0
RGB: 143 168 240
RGB: 143 168 240
HEX: #96CC0D
RGB: 150 204 13
RGB: 150 204 13
HEX: #C6D7EB
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RGB: 198 215 235
HEX: #E6EFF2
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RGB: 230 239 242
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."
