home-feeling and the social-feeling made perfect. The music of it should be the home-feeling and the social-feeling consecrated. As it is, our Protestant churches at least have either a drawling psalmody with the monotony of a lullaby, or they have patches of selections that want unity, appropriateness, or meaning. A music is wanted in our Protestant churches such as Christianity ought to have; a music, simple yet grand—varied but not capricious—gladsome with holy joy, not with irreverent levity, not sentimental, yet tender, solemn but not depressing—not intolerant to the beauties of art, and yet not scornful of popular feeling. If a true and natural taste for music should spring up and be cultivated through the country, not in cities only, but in every village and district, it would be an auspicious phenomenon. It would be a most vital and a most humanizing element in social life. It would break the dullness of our homes; it would brighten the hour of our meetings; would enliven our hospitality, and it would sublime our worship. “Let who that will make the laws of a people,” some one said, “but let me make their songs;” to which a great and patriotic composer might add, Let who that will supply the words of a people’s songs, if I shall be allowed to give these words to music. * * * * * SPRING LILIES. ’Neath their green and cool cathedrals, In the garden lilies bloom, Casting on the fresh spring zephyr Peal on peal of sweet perfume; Often have I, pausing near them When the sunset flushed the sky, Seen the coral bells vibrating With their fragrant harmony. But within my quiet dwelling I have now a lily fair, Whose young spirit’s sweet spring budding Watch I with unfailing care. God, in placing her beside me, Made my being most complete, And my heart keeps time forever With the music of her feet. I remember not whilst gazing In her earnest eyes of blue, That the earth holds aught of sorrow, Aught less innocent and true. And the restlessness and longing Wakened by the cares of day, With the burden and the tumult, In her presence fall away. Shield my Lily, Holy Father! Shield her from the whirlwind’s might, But protracted sunshine temper With a soft and starry night; ’Neath the burning sun of summer Scorched and shrunk the spring flower lies, Human hearts contract when strangers Long to clouds and tearful eyes.