Anonymous, Thirteenth Century

(From a Parisian manuscript, Li Loenge Nostre Dame)

I
Bountiful in charity
River of humility,
Brightness when the dusk descends;
Often have I joyed in sin;
Out of my adversity
Lady, you have lifted me
Weak in will to make amends;
All my ways are evil ways,
On my cot I lie today
In painful weeping;
Lean down to succor me
Mother of Pity.

III
Rose of a day in May,
Lure from its evil way
My heart that slumbers;
Your fragrance must be nigh
Or of my wounds I die,
Wounds without number.
Queen of the saving port
Whither my ship is set,
Beauty beyond dismay,
Haste to the comforting
Of those who call to you
With a heart's ardor.

V
Never can I repay
Though all I have be yours;
I was ill-counseled;
Virgin Mother of a King,
Eyes that could dimly see
Sin has now closed for me.
Lady, devise a way,
You who watch over us,
That I be waked, and so
Alerted to my death;
That thus prepared I may
Pray here before you.

VI
Heart filled with holy joy,
Chamber of noble fruit,
Great, and most powerful;
None who has leaned upon
So great a refuge
Has failed to come to good;
He whom sin tempts and tries
Runs without light or rest
From dawn to evening;
Death has but little care
Whom it surprises;
Lady, make right my way.

IX
Beauty ineffable,
Goodness incomparable,
Your loving help I seek;
In my deed and my thought
Often I took delight
In dark deception;
One must not find his joy
In the sharp thorn of sin--
It returns bitterness.
By frequent sinfulness
One is brought near death
Swift, unprovidedly.

X
A garden filled with flowers
Of every fragrance,
Your Son has made of you.
Tower of Battle,
Be refuge to our need,
Balm to the languishing,
Weary and pensive;
Death is uncertainty--
For help I come to you
That I may seek the right.
Among my enemies
Is no true refuge.

XV
Fountain of living Faith!
Oriflamme of the King!
Rally us round you!
Quench in my soul the thirst
That burns within it
Truly to fight for God.
Well must I pray you:
To bring us safe to Him
Who hid Himself in you.
Barter not, Lady mine,
When so great prize is had
For the mere asking.

From the Old French by Henry Sorg, S.D.S.