Take Wing, my Soul, and upwards bend thy Flight

First Line Take Wing, my Soul, and upwards bend thy Flight
Author John Norris

Lyric [Devotional writing, religious belief; Passions, sentiments].

Transcribed from Divine hymns and poems on several occasions. Viz. A Pastoral on our Saviour's Nativity. The Wish. The Description of Heaven, in Imitation of Mr. Milton, &c. By Philomela, and several other ingenious persons, 1704, pp. 143–146. Eighteenth Century Collections Online, GALE|CW0110717926. 



Take Wing, my Soul, and upwards bend thy Flight,

To thy originary Fields of Light.

Here's nothing, nothing, here below

That can deserve thy longer Stay;

A secret Whisper bids thee go

To purer Air and Beams of native Day.

Th' Ambition of the tow'ring Lark outvie,

And like him sing as thou dost upward fly.


How all things lessen which my Soul before

Did with the groveling Multitude adore!

Those Pageant Glories disappear

Which charm and dazle Mortals Eyes;

How do I in this higher Sphere,

How do I Mortals with their Joys despise?

Pure uncorrupted Elements I breathe,

And pity their gross Atmosphere beneath.


How Vile, how Sordid, herethose Trifles shew,

That place the Tenants of that Ball below?

But ha! I've lost the little Sight,

The Scene's remov'd, and all I see

Is one confus'd, dark, Mass of Night;

What nothing was, now nothing seems to be. 

How Calm this Region, how Serene, how Clear,

Sure I some Strains of Heavenly Musick hear.


On, on, the Task is easie now and light,

No Steams of Earth can here retard thy Flight:

Thou need'st not now thy Stroaks renew,

'Tis but to spread thy Pinions wide,

And thou with ease thy Seat wilt view,

Drawn by the Bent of the Ætherial Tide.

'Tis so, I find how sweetly on I move,

Not let by things below, and help'd by those above.


But see to what new Region am I come,

I know it well, it is my native Home.

Here led I once a Life Divine

Which did all Good, no Evil, know,

Ah! Who would such sweet Bliss resign

For those vain Shews which Fools admire below?

'Tis true, but don't of Folly past complain,

But joy to see those blest Abodes again.


A good Retrieve; but lo, while thus I speak

With piercing Rays th' Eternal Day does break;

Beauties of the Face Divine

Strike strongly on my feeble Sight,

With what bright Glories does it shine!

'Tis one Immense and Everflowing Light:

Stop here, my Soul, thou canst not fear more Bliss,

Nor can thy now rais'd Palate ever relish less.