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: #1A1A18
RGB: 26 26 24
RGB: 26 26 24
HEX: #98A0A7
RGB: 152 160 167
RGB: 152 160 167
HEX: #B51100
RGB: 181 17 0
RGB: 181 17 0
HEX: #C0C8B9
RGB: 192 200 185
RGB: 192 200 185
HEX: #FDFFEC
RGB: 253 255 236
RGB: 253 255 236
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."
