That's right, sponge off his face. My name? Oh, yes, James Frothingham, a reverend, have the church At the corner of Ayer and Knox Streets, Methodist. As I was passing by a vile saloon Some men were entering the back room, saying Is he dead or drunk, and such things. I looked in, Went in at last and saw this fellow there, Hunched, doubled down into a chair asleep, Mud on his face as you saw, clothes bespattered, The smell of drink upon him. Then we took him And brought him here, I helped, a Christian duty. But more important, if he wakes I'm here To bring his soul to Christ before he dies-- And he is dying. Yes, it's plain enough The snows of death are falling. Sponge his face, And wash his hands! I never saw such hands Slender and beautiful! Now you have sponged His face, look at that brow--it terrifies-- He looks now like a god--who is this man? I'll tell you all I know: These men were talking And this is what they said: This is the fellow They voted yesterday from booth to booth, They voted him twenty times, and kept him drunk To vote him. First they found him at the station, A little tipsy, talking of his griefs. The conductor put him off here, being drunk. And so these fellows for election day Took him in hand and voted him around, This was the talk. Look at the curse of drink! If he had touched no drink, he had not been Tipsy to fall into these ruffian hands, Who gave him drink and drink and used him thus To violate the suffrage, lose his life Through drink, as he will lose it. He is dying, Death comes of Sin--what plainer truth than this? Sin blinds, too, for that brow could comprehend All things by using what God gave to it. I do not know his name, with your permission I'll search his pockets--yes, here is a letter-- No signature, looks like a draught--I'll read: "Why have you wounded me with words like these: 'He has great genius but no moral sense,' And written to another! Oh my love! By this love which I bear you, by the God Who reigns in heaven do I swear to you My soul is like a wandering star, consumed By its own passion, fire, and the eternal Longing for the eternal, wandering, erring, But flaming, loving light, aspiring to The Light of Lights, some sun, I do not know. It is incapable of aught but honor. And save for follies, trifles in excess, Which I lament, but which in men of wealth, Or worldly power would never raise a word, I can recall no act of mine to bring A blush to your cheek or to mine.