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: #303A55
RGB: 48 58 85
RGB: 48 58 85
HEX: #8F5D58
RGB: 143 93 88
RGB: 143 93 88
HEX: #0E1A30
RGB: 14 26 48
RGB: 14 26 48
HEX: #F09665
RGB: 240 150 101
RGB: 240 150 101
HEX: #FBF3C6
RGB: 251 243 198
RGB: 251 243 198
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."
