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The poems posthumous and collected of Thomas Lovell Beddoes

Beddoes, Thomas Lovell (1803-1849)

collapse sectionI. 
VOL. I.
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THE SECOND BROTHER;
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TORRISMOND;
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DRAMATIC SCENES AND FRAGMENTS.
 I. 
I. ERMINIA ABBANDONATA.
 II. 
II. AN APOTHEOSIS.
 III. 
III. The Israelite amid Philistines.
 IV. 
IV. Lovers' Identity.
 V. 
V. Prison Thoughts.
 VI. 
VI. Man's petty Universe contrasted with the True.
 VII. 
VII. Recognition.
 VIII. 
VIII. Reception of Evil Tidings.
 IX. 
IX. A Ruffian.
 X. 
X. Recollection of Early Life.
 XI. 
XI. A Crocodile.
 XII. 
XII. “Bona de Mortuis.”
 XIII. 
XIII. Rosily dying.
 XIV. 
XIV. Speaker's Meaning dimly descried.
 XV. 
XV. Anticipation of Evil Tidings.
 XVI. 
XVI. Midnight Hymn.
 XVII. 
XVII. Concealed Joy.
 XVIII. 
XVIII. Life a Glass Window.
 XIX. 
XIX. A Dream.
 XX. 
XX. Metaphor of Rain.
 XXI. 
XXI. Meditation.
 XXII. 
XXII. Sweet to Die.
 XXIII. 
XXIII. Extreme Acclivity.
 XXIV. 
XXIV. Rain.
 XXV. 
XXV. Life's Uncertainty.
 XXVI. 
XXVI. Kisses.
 XXVII. 
XXVII. Subterranean City.
 XXVIII. 
XXVIII. Dream of Dying.
 XXIX. 
XXIX. Insignificance of the World.
 XXX. 
XXX. Sleeper's Countenance contemplated.
 XXXI. 
XXXI. A beautiful Night.
 XXXII. 
XXXII. Humble Beginnings.
 XXXIII. 
XXXIII. A Countenance foreboding Evil.
 XXXIV. 
XXXIV. A lofty Mind.
 XXXV. 
XXXV. Sorrow.
 XXXVI. 
XXXVI. Sad and cheerful Songs contrasted.
 XXXVII. 
XXXVII. A subterranean City.
 XXXVIII. 
XXXVIII. Man's anxious, but ineffectual, Guard against Death.
 XXXIX. 
XXXIX. A Day of surpassing Beauty.
 XL. 
XL. The slight and degenerate Nature of Man.
 XLI. 
XLI. A Night-Scene.
 XLII. 
XLII. Dirge.
 XLIII. 
XLIII. Mourners consoled.
 XLIV. 
XLIV. A great Sacrifice self-compensated.
 XLV. 
XLV. “Love is wiser than Ambition.”
 XLVI. 
XLVI. The Murderer's haunted Couch.
 XLVII. 
XLVII. Human Life: its value.
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
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POETIC FRAGMENTS.
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VOL. II.

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XXII. Sweet to Die.

Is it not sweet to die? for, what is death,
But sighing that we ne'er may sigh again,
Getting at length beyond our tedious selves;
But trampling the last tear from poisonous sorrow,
Spilling our woes, crushing our frozen hopes,
And passing like an incense out of man?
Then, if the body felt, what were its sense,
Turning to daisies gently in the grave,
If not the soul's most delicate delight
When it does filtrate, through the pores of thought,
In love and the enamelled flowers of song?
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