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: #70615C
RGB: 112 97 92
RGB: 112 97 92
HEX: #8CA38B
RGB: 140 163 139
RGB: 140 163 139
HEX: #300D28
RGB: 48 13 40
RGB: 48 13 40
HEX: #EDB552
RGB: 237 181 82
RGB: 237 181 82
HEX: #F7EEAA
RGB: 247 238 170
RGB: 247 238 170
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."
