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: #0F0E23
RGB: 15 14 35
RGB: 15 14 35
HEX: #2C7F88
RGB: 44 127 136
RGB: 44 127 136
HEX: #0C2A2D
RGB: 12 42 45
RGB: 12 42 45
HEX: #F3C667
RGB: 243 198 103
RGB: 243 198 103
HEX: #92F6D5
RGB: 146 246 213
RGB: 146 246 213
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."
