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: #74BF0C
RGB: 116 191 12
RGB: 116 191 12
HEX: #D9D110
RGB: 217 209 16
RGB: 217 209 16
HEX: #93FF00
RGB: 147 255 0
RGB: 147 255 0
HEX: #9DE23D
RGB: 157 226 61
RGB: 157 226 61
HEX: #FFFFF
RGB: 255 255 15
RGB: 255 255 15
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."
