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: #FE736F
RGB: 254 115 111
RGB: 254 115 111
HEX: #78A0FF
RGB: 120 160 255
RGB: 120 160 255
HEX: #73C842
RGB: 115 200 66
RGB: 115 200 66
HEX: #DCDCEA
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RGB: 220 220 234
HEX: #F8F8F9
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RGB: 248 248 249
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."
