"Nothing is good for a nation but that which arises from its own core and its own general wants, without apish imitation of another."

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Hark! the hours are softly calling Bidding Spring arise To listen to the rain-drops falling From the cloudy skies To listen to Earth’s weary voices Louder every day Bidding her no longer linger On her charm’d way But hasten to her task of beauty Scarcely yet begun.

— Adelaide Anne Procter