'The Roman Catholic Church has never forgiven us for converting Sir Arthur Conan Doyle from his Agnosticism; and when Men like Mr. Dennis Bradley can no longer be Content with the old Faith, a Spirit of Jealousy is naturally roused.'
-A Spiritualist Paper
She sat upon her Seven Hills
She rent the scarlet robes about her,
Nor yet in her two thousand years
Had ever grieved that men should doubt her;
But what new horror shakes the mind
Making her moan and mutter madly;
Lo! Rome's high heart is broken at last
Her foes have borrowed Dennis Bradley.
If she must lean on lesser props
Of earthly fame or ancient art,
Make shift with Raphael and Racine
Put up with Dante and Descartes,
Not wholly can she mask her grief
But touch the wound and murmur sadly,
'These lesser things are theirs to love
Who lose the love of Mr. Bradley.'
She saw great Origen depart
And Photius rend the world asunder,
Her cry to all the East rolled back
In Islam its ironic thunder,
She lost Jerusalem and the North
Accepting these arrangements gladly
Until it came to be a case
Of Conan Doyle v. Dennis Bradley.
O fond and foolish hopes that still
In broken hearts unbroken burn,
What if, grown weary of new ways,
The precious wanderer should return
The Trumpet whose uncertain sound
Has just been cracking rather badly
May yet within her courts remain
His Trumpet-blown by Dennis Bradley.
His and her Trumpet blown before
The battle where the good cause wins
Louder than all the Irish harps
Or the Italian violins;
When armed and mounted like St. Joan
She meets the mad world riding madly
Under the Oriflamme of old
Crying, 'Mont-joie St. Dennis Bradley!'
But in this hour she sorrows still,
Though all anew the generations
Rise up and call her blessed, claim
Her name upon the new born Nations
But still she mourns the only thing
She ever really wanted badly;
The sympathy of Conan Doyle
The patronage of Dennis Bradley.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem