Sumner is dead! O sad repeating words! That beat upon our hearts Like showers of frozen hail! Melting in tears! That swell the tidal wave of sorrow, Sweeping adown the great Pacific slopes, Rushing along To the sorrowful shores of the broad Atlantic. Sumner is dead! And bitter tears From our sad eyes Doth make us little recompense For his most noble life! Though The nations of the earth rise up to comfort us; The glorious Orient and the kindly Occident Stretch forth their hands To us Across the spaces of the earth! Sumner is dead! And the tears of heaven Are mingling with the tears of earth, Above his new made grave. Showers of stormy rain Descend upon the grave of our beloved dead, Whose most honored dust Is heirloom To all the sorrowing nations of the earth! Sumner is dead! O mournful hearts, At whose red-lintel doors The angel of sorrow knocks, And knocks again! O tear filled eyes! upon whose drooping fringes The heavy foot of sorrow presses hard Be comforted! For God shall wipe the tears from your sad eyes. Oration. There is a word, When once spoken, Fixes its meaning upon every human brain, And finds a habitation, Within the sacred chambers of the soul; A word, Whether spoken on the shores of the Orient, Lying in slumbrous dreams A-near the sun! Or the land of the snow and ice, Where gorgeous temples arise, Whose translucent walls are Builded without the sound of hammer or chisel! Whether spoken In the halls of learning or at the fireside, On the ship's deck Or the soldier's camp, Finds an echo In every human heart!