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: #030418
RGB: 3 4 24
RGB: 3 4 24
HEX: #FB4B0F
RGB: 251 75 15
RGB: 251 75 15
HEX: #F5C20C
RGB: 245 194 12
RGB: 245 194 12
HEX: #080F29
RGB: 8 15 41
RGB: 8 15 41
HEX: #6B8C5D
RGB: 107 140 93
RGB: 107 140 93
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."