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: #161920
RGB: 22 25 32
RGB: 22 25 32
HEX: #273041
RGB: 39 48 65
RGB: 39 48 65
HEX: #161E29
RGB: 22 30 41
RGB: 22 30 41
HEX: #617286
RGB: 97 114 134
RGB: 97 114 134
HEX: #A1B1C8
RGB: 161 177 200
RGB: 161 177 200
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."