A little cot back'd by a wood-fring'd height,
Where sylvan Usk runs swiftly babbling by:
Here thy young eyes first look'd on earth and sky,
And all the wonders of the day and night;
O born interpreter of Nature's might,
Lord of the quiet heart and seeing eye,
Vast is our debt to thee we'll ne'er deny,
Though some may own it in their own despite.
Now after fourscore teeming years and seven,
Our hearts are jocund that we have thee still