Kind nurse of her abundant good
To human wants, from herb or wood,
Tho’ seem the withering winds less rude
Than thoughtless man’s ingratitude;
Not all thy children droop forlorn,
Hurl’d from magnificence to scorn.
You, fox-gloves, through the varying year[[71]]
Fresh, vigorous and countless here,
You, happy fox-gloves, as you fell,
In triumph clos’d each purple bell;