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: #456297
RGB: 69 98 151
RGB: 69 98 151
HEX: #9FBAEE
RGB: 159 186 238
RGB: 159 186 238
HEX: #D61515
RGB: 214 21 21
RGB: 214 21 21
HEX: #6390E4
RGB: 99 144 228
RGB: 99 144 228
HEX: #FAF2E1
RGB: 250 242 225
RGB: 250 242 225
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."
