In ev'ry breast there burns an active flame,
The love of glory, or the dread of shame:
The passion ONE, tho' various it appear,
As brighten'd into hope, or dimm'd by fear.
The lisping infant, and the hoary sire,
And youth and manhood feel the heart-born fire;
The charms of praise the coy, the modest wooe,
And only fly, that glory may pursue:
She, pow'r resistless, rules the wise and great;
Bends ev'n reluctant hermits at her feet:
Haunts the proud city, and the lowly shade,
And sways alike the scepter and the spade.