PREFACE. WORSHIP is an attitude which our nature assumes, not for a purpose, but from an emotion. Whenever it is genuine, it is the natural and spontaneous utterance of a mind possessed by the conception of the infinite relations in which we stand, and aspiring towards a point of view worthy of their solemnity. And though it breathes forth the deepest and greatest of desires, it is essentially an end, and not a means; and, like the embrace of friendship, or the kiss of domestic affection, loses all its meaning, when adopted from conviction of its reasonableness, or with a view to personal advantage. Those who ask, or who would explain, what it is for,—whether disposed to regard it as serviceable for persuading God or for benefiting man,—have as absolutely lost its true spirit, as the mother would forget her nature, if she were to regulate her caresses by expediency. The plaints of a sacred sorrow, the cry of penitence, the vow of duty, the brilliancy of praise, shed forth, like the laughter and the tears of infancy, from a heart conscious of nothing else, are examples of the true and primitive devotion. In opposition to this Natural idea of worship stands the Utilitarian, which considers it an "Instrumental act;" whether, according to the sacerdotal view, its instrumentality is thought to be mystically efficacious with God; or, according to the rationalistic, intelligibly beneficial to man. The statements which this last-mentioned theory makes, respecting the value of worship to the conscience and the heart, are all quite true. But the churches which begin to justify their outward devotion by appeal to this consideration have already lost their inward devoutness; and the individual who, with this notion of self-operation, speaks a prayer, performs an act of disciplinary prudence, not of Christian piety, and takes the air of heaven for the sake of exercise, rather than in love of the light and quest of the immensity of God. It is evident that the natural sentiments of worship have been the parents of all that is great in sacred art; and that architecture, music, painting, and poetry, first allied themselves with religion,-not condescendingly, in order to improve it, but reverently, to receive from it their noblest consecration. They put themselves submissively into its hands, willing to take whatever forms its plastic power might impress, if they might only serve as its outward voice and manifestation. The cathedral aisle sprung up and closed over the place of prayer, like an effort to grasp the infinitude of God. Christendom, feeling that the mere articulate speech of men was harsh when it took up the Holy Name, adopted melody as its natural language, and prayed upon the organ. But the first encroachment of the rationalistic spirit checked these creations of piety, and dragged genius from the altar. Religion could not look in the glass without discovering the secret of her beauty; and too infirm to retain her simplicity, assumed the weeds of self-mortification. The Puritans pressed the fatal question what was the use of all these glorious symbols; in as much as He who is a spirit can take no pleasure in material forms, and the Being whose presence swells the midnight heavens could see nothing fair in any temple made with hands. Art instantly took flight at the suggestion; and the grandeur and harmony of religion showed themselves no longer in the forms of worship, but rather in the actual life, of this class of men. The minster beheld the rise of the conven ticle; and the solemn anthem was exchanged for the rude and shouting psalm. In these days, the rugged features of our forefathers' religion have been softened; art is invited back, not to plead with God, but to delight and benefit man, through whose senses it is thought well to act upon his soul. But neither is this kind of expediency productive of any thing great. It is critical, not creative; it has no new ideas indeed to express; merely the old methods to follow for fostering the piety of men; and reaches therefore only tasteful imitation. And as religious art in general, so sacred poetry in particular, has its origin in the natural, and its decline in the Utilitarian view of worship. Every simple utterance of a deep affection, not poured out with an aim, but merely overflowing, is poetry in its essence, whatever be its form: and on the other hand, no expression of thought or feeling which has an ulterior purpose, of instruction, exposition, persuasion, impression, can have the spirit of poetry, though it may receive the usual diction and rhythm of verse. There may be truth, beauty, eloquence, but not poetry. And if this be so, it is evident that all natural devotion is but a mode of poetry; while no rationalistic devotion can ever reach it. The spontaneous effusion of the former has only to fall into regular and musical shape, and it becomes a hymn. The deliberate productions of the other, in subordination to a purpose beyond themselves, must always miss the true lyrical character; and must furnish us only with rhymed theology, versified precepts, or biblical descriptions capable of being sung, with more or less of skill in concealing the didactic spirit, and imitating the poetical style. By those who have overlooked this principle, it seems to have been supposed, that there are certain ideas which, considered as the subject-matter of composition, are in themselves religious and poetical, and constitute a stock of materials capable, when constructed into verse, of passing into a devotional ode: whereas it is neither the matter, nor the form, of thought, that makes religion or poetry; but the state of mind and affection in the author producing them, which may im-' press a sacred and an ideal character on an indefinite variety of materials and modes of sentiment and language. : It is easy to perceive on what principle of selection a compiler of hymns must proceed, who is impressed with this idea of the relation between poetry and worship. His rule will be, simply to take those poems which appear to shed forth, with the greatest genuineness and force, the emotions of a mind possessed with the religious or mysterious conception of God, of life and death, of duty, of futurity. His aim will not be to secure a metaphysical accuracy in the representations of the Supreme object of worship;—an aim which indeed would be only presumptuous and absurd, inasmuch as it would be an application of our mensurative or scientific perceptions to a subject whose infinitude renders it approachable only by the ideal faculty and at all events, since a hymn, and not an exposition is needed, general truth of impression—often reached through the boldest departure from precise truth of detail, -ought alone to be regarded. Nor will he think it necessary to graduate the fervour, the imaginativeness, the grandeur of the compositions admitted into his volume, by the cold, level, and prosaic condition of mind which may possibly prevail among some who use it. Thus to damp the fire down to the temperature of the fuel, seems to offer but a small prospect of kindling any thing. We must not thus forego the glorious power which art exercises in worship. Its peculiar function, in connection with religion is, to substitute, for the poor and low thoughts of ordinary men, the solemn and vivid images of things invisible that have revealed themselves to loftier souls; and to present the objects of faith before the general mind in something of that aspect, under which they rise up before the great artists of poetry and of |