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.
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RGB: 49 49 49
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RGB: 151 206 68
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RGB: 194 232 60
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RGB: 216 222 206
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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."