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            <title>I. “This is the day, which in Time’s teeming womb”</title>
            
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               <persName>
                  <forename>Andrew Cecil</forename>
                  <surname>Bradley</surname>
                  <name type="displayName">Bradley, Andrew Cecil</name>
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            <publisher>University of Victoria Digital Victorian Periodical Poetry Project</publisher>
            <pubPlace>Victoria, BC, Canada</pubPlace>
            <availability>
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            <note>Poem included under the general title <title level="a">Sonnets on the Occupation of Rome, Sept. 20, 1870</title> and signed <q>A. C. Bradley.</q> (SP)</note>
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               <title level="j">The Dark Blue</title>
               <biblScope unit="volume">4</biblScope>
               <biblScope unit="issue">3</biblScope>
               <biblScope unit="page" from="295" to="295">295</biblScope>
               <date when="1872-11"/>
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                     <incipit>This is the day, which in Time’s teeming womb</incipit>
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PONNETS

ON THE OCCUPATION OF ROME, SEPT. 20, 1870.

Qos

‘Thou hast great allies:
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and man’s unconquerable mind.’
Wordsworth to Toussatnt L’ Owverture.

i.

Tus is the day, which in Time’s teeming womb
Yearned to behold the sunlight and be free ;
Day at whose dawn desired the long night’s gloom
Breaks, and the light leaps forth, and Italy
Stands crowned and risen beside the cloven tomb,
Her years of shame and sleep and slavery.
And with one voice this day of her new doom
Joins with the solemn sound of days to be,
‘ And Alp to Apennine, and tide to tide,
And multitude to multitude reply :—
Alas! that in such hour her eyes grow dim,
Seeing where she hath cast her noblest down to die,
And in her soul one still voice should abide,
Her own soul’s voice rebuking her for him.

Il.

Fair land, fair love, to new hope born new-blessed,
What hast thou done to him who from thy dead
Cold ashes blew the fire of hope long fled P

Where is he now, the seer, the dream-possessed ?

O would that for thy crown there still might rest
The sunlight of his presence o’er thee shed,

A deathless splendour for that queenly head,

Now pillowed on the adulterous royal breast !

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