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ONE

HUNDRED SONNETS.

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.

1857

280 x 411.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY WILLOUGHBY AND CO., 26, SMITH FIELD. 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.

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