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: #312626
RGB: 49 38 38
RGB: 49 38 38
HEX: #EB1C1C
RGB: 235 28 28
RGB: 235 28 28
HEX: #FF0303
RGB: 255 3 3
RGB: 255 3 3
HEX: #DB3030
RGB: 219 48 48
RGB: 219 48 48
HEX: #C93F3F
RGB: 201 63 63
RGB: 201 63 63
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."