There too is the lash which, all statues controlling,
Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair;
For man is the pupil, who, while her eye’s rolling,
Is lifted to rapture, or sunk in despair.
VII.
Bloom, theatre, bloom, in the roseate blushes
Of beauty illumed by a love-breathing smile!
And flourish, ye pillars,[127] as green as the rushes
That pillow the nymphs of the Emerald Isle!
VIII.