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: #632F19
RGB: 99 47 25
RGB: 99 47 25
HEX: #405563
RGB: 64 85 99
RGB: 64 85 99
HEX: #390452
RGB: 57 4 82
RGB: 57 4 82
HEX: #784F1A
RGB: 120 79 26
RGB: 120 79 26
HEX: #7A5A3A
RGB: 122 90 58
RGB: 122 90 58
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."
