That God had _developed Himself_ in him:--
That what is called _Sin_ in mankind, is not so,
But is just _misdirection_, all owing, you know,
To defectiveness either of body or brain,
Or both, which the soul is not thought to retain,--
In the body it acts as it _must_, but that dead
All stain from the innocent soul will have fled!

"How wise was Squire Loftus!" there's somebody cries;--
Nay, friend, not so fast, if you please;
His wisdom was that of the self-deceived fool
Who quits the clear fount for the foul, stagnant pool,
Who puts out his eyes lest the light he descry,
Then shouts 'mid the gloom "how clear-sighted am I!"
Who turns from the glorious fountain of Day,
To follow the wild _ignis fatuus_' ray
Through quagmire and swamp, ever farther astray,
With every step that he takes.

But he died as he lived; and the desolate night
He had courted and loved better far than the light,
Grew more and more dark, till he passed from our sight,
And what shall I say of him more?--
Give me rather John Littlewit's questionless faith,
To illume my lone path through the valley of death--
The arm that he leaned on, the mansion of light
That burst through the gloom on his kindling sight,
And I'll leave the poor sceptic his lore!--
Let me know only this--_I was lost and undone,
But am saved by the blood of the Crucified One_,