When the weary ones we love Enter on their rest above, Seems the earth so poor and vast, All our life joy overcast? Hush, be every murmur dumb; It is only till He come. Clouds and conflicts round us press; Would we have one sorrow less? All the sharpness of the cross, All that tells the world is loss, Death, and darkness, and the tomb Only whisper, ’Till He come.’ See! the feast of love is spread; Drink the wine, and break the bread: Sweet memorials, till the Lord Call us round His heavenly board, Some from earth, from glory some, Severed only till He come.[181] This aspect of the Lord’s Supper, the proclamation of the Lord’s death ’till He come,’ must ever be present to the mind of the devout communicant. The hymn—especially in its last verse—is full of the gracious, subdued trustfulness which befits the Christian as he commemorates the Atoning Sacrifice and looks forward to glad, eternal communion with those who have gone before, when once again our Lord Himself shall break the bread and drink the wine with His disciples in the Father’s kingdom. Dean Stanley (1815-81) was not a poet, though he wrote the best English hymn on the Transfiguration. I mention him here, however, to quote some verses of his stirring national hymn, worthy of a Dean of Westminster. It is of a type that, I think, ought to be represented in our hymnals, and especially those intended for school use. Why should not such hymns as this and Mr. Gill’s ‘Lift thy song among the nations’ stir and consecrate the patriotism of our up-growing girls and boys? Dean Stanley’s hymn is very long. I quote less than half. In the _Westminster Abbey Hymn-book_ it is assigned to the Accession. Let us with a gladsome mind Praise the Lord, for He is kind! Long our island throne has stood, Planted on the ocean flood; Crowned with rock, and girt with sea, Home and refuge of the free: For His mercies aye endure, Ever faithful, ever sure. On that island throne have sate Alfred’s goodness, Edward’s state; Princely strength and queenly grace, Lengthened line of royal race: Round that throne have stood of old Seers and statesmen, firm and bold; Burleigh’s wisdom, Hampden’s fire, Chatham’s force in son and sire. Let us with a gladsome mind Praise the Lord, for He is kind: Him, in homely English tongue, Epic lay and lyric song, Shakespeare’s myriad-minded verse, Milton’s heavenward strains, rehearse: For His mercies aye endure, Ever faithful, ever sure. Hither in our heathen night Came of yore the gospel light; By the Saviour’s sacred story, ‘Angles’ turned to angels’ glory. Breaking with a gracious hand Ancient error’s subtle band; Opening wide the sacred page, Kindling hope in saint and sage.