My Little Saint

I care not, though it be
By the preciser sort thought popery;
We poets can a license show
For everything we do.
Hear, then, my little saint! I'll pray to thee.

If now thy happy mind,
Amidst its various joys, can leisure find
To attend to anything so low
As what I say or do,
Regard, and be — what thou wast ever — kind.

Let not the blest above
Engross thee quite, but sometimes hither rove:
Fain would I thy sweet image see,
And sit and talk with thee;
Nor is it curiosity, but love.

Ah! what delight 't would be,
Wouldst thou sometimes by stealth converse with me!
How should I thy sweet commune prize,
And other joys despise!
Come, then! I ne'er was yet denied by thee.

I would not long detain
Thy soul from bliss, nor keep thee here in pain;
Nor should thy fellow-saints e'er know
Of thy escape below:
Before thou 'rt missed, thou shouldst return again.