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: #0B010A
RGB: 11 1 10
RGB: 11 1 10
HEX: #230801
RGB: 35 8 1
RGB: 35 8 1
HEX: #00391D
RGB: 0 57 29
RGB: 0 57 29
HEX: #85A9B5
RGB: 133 169 181
RGB: 133 169 181
HEX: #C0D29E
RGB: 192 210 158
RGB: 192 210 158
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."