366. ‘Vergin bella, che di sol vestita,’ (His Prayer to the Virgin)

Lovely Virgin, who, clothed in glory,

crowned with stars, so pleased

the high Sun, that he hid his light in you,

love urges me to speak of you:

but I cannot begin without your help,

and His, who lovingly was set in you.

I call on her who always replies truly

to those who call to her with faith:

Virgin, if the final

misery of human life can forever

turn to you for mercy, bow down to hear my prayer,

and help me in this, my war,

though I am earth, and you the queen of heaven.

Wisest Virgin, and of that lovely number

one of the virgins blessed with prudence,

rather the first of them, and with the brightest lamp:

O solid shield for the oppressed peoples

against the blows of Death and Fortune,

under whom we triumph, not just escape:

O coolness for blind heat that flares

among foolish mortals here:

Virgin, turn those lovely eyes,

that saw in sadness the pitiless wounds

in the sweet limbs of your dear Son,

on my uncertain state,

who, without counsel, come to you for counsel.

Virgin, pure, perfect in every way,

daughter and mother to your noble Son,

you who illuminate this life, adorn the other,

through you that Son of the highest Father,

O highest shining window of heaven,

came to save us in these latter days:

and from all the other earthly wombs

you alone were chosen,

Virgin, so blessed,

that Eve’s weeping turned to happiness.

Make me, as you can, worthy of His grace,

O forever blessed,

already crowned in the highest kingdom.

Sacred Virgin, filled with every grace,

that through true and noblest humility

leapt to heaven, where you hear my prayers,

you gave birth to pity’s fountain,

and the sun of justice, you who shine through

this age filled with darkness, thick with error:

three sweet, beloved, names combine in you,

mother, daughter, spouse:

Glorious Virgin,

queen to that King who has loosed our bonds,

and made the world free and happy,

I pray you satisfy my heart

with his sacred wounds, true blessed one.

Virgin sole on earth without a peer,

who enamoured heaven of your beauty,

whom no other equalled or came near,

holy thoughts, chaste and merciful actions

made you sacred to the one true God,

a living temple, fruitful in virginity.

You have the power to render my life joyful,

since with your prayers, O Maria,

sweet, virtuous Virgin,

grace abounds where sin abounded.

I bow to you on my knees, in thought,

I beg you to be my guide

and direct my crooked path to a good end.

Bright Virgin, established in eternity,

star of this tempestuous sea,

faithful guide to every faithful sailor,

consider in what fearful danger

I find myself alone, without a helm,

and already near the final shout.

But my soul trusts in you completely,

sinful, I don’t deny it,

Virgin: but I pray to you

that your enemy derive no mockery from my evils:

you know that our sin made God,

take on human flesh,

in your virgin cloister, to save us.

Virgin, what tears I have already scattered,

what pleadings and what prayers in vain,

solely for my pain and my grave hurt!

From the time I was born on the banks of the Arno,

searching in this place or in that,

my life has been nothing but trouble.

Mortal beauty, actions and speech

have all hampered my soul.

Sacred, kindly Virgin,

do not delay, since perhaps this is my last year.

And my days have flown, swifter

than an arrow

in misery and sin, and I only wait for Death.

Virgin, she is so much earth, and has sunk

my heart in sadness, that living she held weeping,

who never knew even one of my thousand ills:

and for her to know them, what was would

have had to not be: for any other will than hers

would have been death to me, ill fame to her.

Now lady of heaven, our goddess

(if it is right to call you so)

Virgin of noble feelings,

you see all: and what no other can do

is as nothing to your great power,

making an end to sorrow:

that honours you, and is my salvation.

Virgin, in whom is all my hope,

who can and will aid me in my great need,

do not abandon me in this last strait.

No one protects me but he who deigned to make me:

not for my worth, but because His noble image,

that is in me, moves you to care for a man so vile.

Medusa and my error turned me to stone,

dripping with vain moisture:

Virgin, you with holy tears

and mercy fill my weary heart,

so that at least my final tears will be pious,

free of earthly mire,

just as the first were unmarked by its sickness.

Kindly Virgin, and enemy of pride,

may love of our common origin guide you:

to take pity on a humble contrite heart.

Since I used to love a little fallen mortal dust

with such marvellous faith, what

must I do towards your noble person?

If by your hand I rise from this

wretched and vile state,

Virgin, I’ll consecrate my purified

thoughts, intellect and style, to your name,

tongue and heart, tears and sighs.

Urge me to better ways,

and be pleased to accept my altered passions.

The day is coming, and cannot be long,

time runs so fast, and flies,

Virgin, unique, alone,

remorse and death sting my heart.

Commend me to your Son, truly

Man, and truly God,

that he might receive my last breath, in peace.

‘Petrarch’s Tomb’ - Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. A Romaunt (p230, London 1869), George Gordon Byron, The British Library