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: #C11D4F
RGB: 193 29 79
RGB: 193 29 79
HEX: #22959D
RGB: 34 149 157
RGB: 34 149 157
HEX: #180848
RGB: 24 8 72
RGB: 24 8 72
HEX: #EAD8BB
RGB: 234 216 187
RGB: 234 216 187
HEX: #E9E75B
RGB: 233 231 91
RGB: 233 231 91
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."
