Two Guides

      You, Fitch, are known to be a Deacon⁠—
      A shining light, a holy beacon
      Upon the walls of Zion, blazing
      With an effulgency amazing.

And yet, I think, between the two
(Bob Ingersoll, I mean, and you)
A man in want of light to read
Between the lines of nature’s Creed

Would rather scrutinize Creation
By Robert’s clear illumination,
Than blind his eyes with smoke and vapor
From your infernal sputtering taper.

Though Ingersoll, perchance, had not
Of wisdom or of truth one jot,
I’d rather miss with him the clew
To life than follow it with you.