ONE

HUNDRED SONNETS;

BY

HENRY FRANK LOTT.

"If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven,
Then, to the measure of that Heaven-born light
Shine, Poet! in thy sphere, and be content."

WORDSWORTH.

LONDON:

WILLOUGHBY AND CO., WARWICK LANE,

AND SMITHFIELD.

1851.

280

LONDON:

PRINTED BY WILLOUGHBY AND CO., 26, SMITHFIELD.

I.

DEDICATION,

TO MY MOTHER.

To thee, who, fonder than all else beside,
Hast yearn'd with anxious thought upon my fate,

These trifling flowers of song I dedicate,

In filial duty, and in manly pride:

Of public favour, granted or denied,

I've neither hope nor fear-for still elate

My heart will be, that it can consecrate
Thy name with aught that Genius has supplied.
I seek no patron 'mong the gifted minds

Our land abounds with, for I have no need;
My Muse no rich man's condescension binds-

She pipes in independence on her reed;
And, if she's uttered aught thy spirit finds
Consoling to thine
age, I have my meed.

SONNETS.

II.

There is no lack of poets to rehearse
The wrongs we suffer, nor to urge our claim

To equal rights-to bandy Freedom's name, Nor show how withering is Slavery's curse: Yet needs a Milton for the universe

To bring its tyrants of the mind to shame;
Or caustic Byron, with a pen of flame,
To fuse the fetters of its brutal force.

Land of these mighty spirits! is thy womb

Still pregnant with a mightier, who shall write The epitaph upon Oppression's tomb,

And pierce the depths of ignorance with light? Oh! that the glorious advent might but come

Before I slumber in eternal night!