Beatæ Mariæ Virginis Reginæ
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| Notre Dame des Grâces, Cotignac.(Poggi, 2020) |
Today is the Feast of the Queenship of Mary and I have just completed draft 1.0 of a verse translation into English of a poem written by Fr François Poiré in his magnificent work The Triple Crown of the Mother of God (1643 French edition).
I had not planned the timing and I am once more indebted to Our gentle Queen and Mother for her solicitude in making this occur. I offer the translation to her as a gift on her feast day, thanking her for everything as well as asking her to intercede for my family, keeping them safe from all harm.*
*[EEKPTEE & EA]
The translation of The Triple Crown has been posted daily (D.V.) since the 1st of May 2024 on the blog of our sister-site: the Rosarium Aureum.
Introduction
The context of the poem is the author's discussion of Mary as a victorious warrior Queen. I decided to attempt an English verse translation using the metre and rhyming scheme of the French original as well as mirroring as far as possible the author’s language and imagery.
Here is Fr. Poiré’s brief introduction to the poem:
"There we have some of the triumphs of our warrior Princess and there too we see her enemies trampled beneath her feet. I feel moved by this to construct a trophy[1] for her and to sing a Pæan[2] in honour of her heroic valour – even though it comes nowhere close to her sublime merits."
Footnotes
[1] A sign of victory, monument or memorial commemorating a victory; Latin tropaeum, from Greek tropaion "monument of an enemy's defeat," noun use of neuter of adjective tropaios "of defeat, causing a rout," from tropē "a rout," originally "a turning" (of the enemy).
[2] "hymn of praise, song of triumph;" in general use, "a loud and joyous song," Originally the physician of the gods (in Homer); literally "one who touches" (i.e. "one who heals by a touch"), probably taken from a phrase or word at the beginning of the hymn, from paio "to touch, strike."
The Poem
Pæan in honour of Mary's heroic valour
Version. 1.0. by P.B. 2025
If living trumpet can’t be found
To laud this Virgin so renowned,
Or praise her in the highest height,
How may my humble, lifeless quill
All heaven and earth with praises fill
And boldly of her greatness write?
I have no wish, most dear Princess,
To use as proof of thy prowess
Mere earthly things that all are mortal;
To sing of thy divine conquest
Please grant my words be truly blessed
By all that’s heav’nly and immortal.
The Muses’ lyres and voices sound
Too soft to make our prayer resound;
Apollo’s lute doth sound too low:
Our need is for Angelic phrases
Describing in celestial praises
How gloriously her triumphs grow.
To mark within the fields of glory
Her double victory’s splendid story,
Let’s gather flowers, bright and tender;
On Hymettus, they are too jaded
And those on Pindus are too faded
To crown her with sufficient Splendour.
The best of Parian quarry stone,
Which after dressing men do hone
And fix upon triumphal arches,
Cannot provide a proper base
On which to carve with fitting grace
The stories of her victory marches.
Not gleaming pearls spawned by the sea,
Nor gold in all its majesty,
Suffice her feats to celebrate;
They lack the qualities supernal
To match her triumphs sempiternal:
Full timeless and esteeméd great.
The beaches like a golden plain
Surrounded by the azure main
Must bear her arms and eke her name;
The Moon in darkness of the night,
The Morning Star that heralds light
Must spread abroad the Virgin’s fame.
Some things which absent seem to me
When God is here are plain to see;
Since He hath kept a sign of signs
Beneath His throne: the evil features
Of all these wicked, hideous creatures
Arranged below in ranks and lines.
Above, I see this vaulted ceiling,
In crystal sparks the stars revealing:
They form within the firmament
A broad and lengthy astral band
That for her victories may stand
An everlasting monument.
A thousand twinkling starry burgeons
Transparently do shape two Virgins
Who in the centre take their stand;
The one is wondrous for her beauty,
The other wields a sword for duty
To mete out justice her command.
An Astræ she, in courage grounded,
By monsters four hath been surrounded:
But Crab and Lion are no match;
The battle cometh to a close
With cut and thrust; in deadly throes
She Snake and Scorpion doth despatch.
These monsters, Princess, in their rage
A furious war against thee wage
Until thou dost them overpower;
Their stubborn pride must now surrender
Acknowledging thy triumph’s splendour,
Thy victory’s most glorious hour!
No substance in the Crab is found,
He wanders aimlessly around,
His guide the fickle lights of night;
This stubborn heretic and proud
Bewails the fate wherein he’s cowed
And crushed; how he doth hate his plight.
The Lion is the Demon furious
Who roared with hatreds (all injurious)
And planned to seize the heavenly heights;
But now he’s vanquished, hear him groan
As pow’rless neath the Virgin’s throne,
He harms no more her children’s rights.
The Master of all occult things
Is like a Scorpion when he stings;
And festering with poison vile
He wars against the God of might;
Thy vengeance putteth him to flight
By serving him with his own bile.
Blasphemer: one who plays his part
By poisoning his evil dart
With venom from the blood of Snakes;
He’s powerless, with no recourse,
The Queen of Heaven doth him force
To spew his bile for his mistakes.
Thy victory, O Queen of glory,
O’er evil is a wondrous story –
An evil dark and bestial.
Thy triumphs are for aye preserved,
Their memory in souls observed
And in the realm celestial.
These deadly hammer-blows of thine
Will to their final fate consign
The rest of all thy mortal foes.
The blessed souls who honour thee
Will in thy love dwell peacefully
Til earthly life doth reach its close.
👑 👑 👑
SUB tuum præsidium confugimus, Sancta Dei Genitrix. Nostras deprecationes ne despicias in necessitatibus, sed a periculis cunctis libera nos semper, Virgo gloriosa et benedicta. Amen.
The Virgin of Tenderness. >12th century.
Totus tuus ego sum
Et omnia mea tua sunt;
Tecum semper tutus sum:
Ad Jesum per Mariam.
© Peter Bloor 2025
