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: #573833
RGB: 87 56 51
RGB: 87 56 51
HEX: #5C5C74
RGB: 92 92 116
RGB: 92 92 116
HEX: #D92030
RGB: 217 32 48
RGB: 217 32 48
HEX: #C5B55E
RGB: 197 181 94
RGB: 197 181 94
HEX: #E5BAB1
RGB: 229 186 177
RGB: 229 186 177
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."
