Corneliae sanctae, graves Semproniae
The Virtuous Life
A portrait of a woman whose interior life, domestic discipline, and intellectual grace defined her character.
Holy Cornelia, grave Sempronia, and every serious woman everywhere: bring your tears; she who brought you together and demanded your praises now asks for your tears as well. For let grave modesty mourn this ruin, and let shame stand by, even with hair undone; let the simple majesty of her face, her grief, be enough. The glory of women has perished, and men fear that she might have deprived both sexes of her gift. She didn't waste her days on elaborate hairstyles, building up proud structures and a towering head, only to spend the rest of the day gossiping—for since Babel, there's only confusion of tongues. Instead, after a modest arrangement of her hair (as befits a woman of integrity) and a brief moment of care, she would properly attend to her soul, approaching the Divine with sharp and fiery prayer. Then she would look after her household, weighing out the needs of the kitchen, the garden, and the fields, one by one. There is a time and a place for everything. From there, the day's tasks are required in the raw evening. Life and home are sustained by a sure plan, prudently calculated every day. The whole house shines with grace and charm, reflecting the spirit that shone there before. But if the chance for some great person's arrival rarely presented itself, she would rise to the occasion and distinguish herself; she would compete in the moment and prevail. Alas! What a downpour of wisdom, what kindness in her speech, what serious wit, what intelligence mixed with grace! She speaks in metaphors, constraints, and riddles; or if the hour calls for business, she glides through the twists and turns of the matter, challenging even the sternest judges with her insights. And then, what an artist she was with the written word? What writing? The shell is beautiful, but the kernel is even more beautiful, as the content matches the voice in a wonderful way. Her well-known letters fly across the world: O gentle hand, your worthy writing is by no means in that dust where you now rest; the sands of the Pactolus are your only tomb.
A Son's Lament
The author reflects on his mother's legacy of mercy and defends his right to grieve and honor her through his writing.
Add to these a third part of music, which, by softening and soothing the other gifts, seems like a brief prelude to heavenly harmony. In the end, how wonderful is this helper of the poor? A staff for the weary, a mat for those lying down, a common balm for the fluttering heart: public blessings crown her head, and they bring back and anticipate the manner of heaven. I fall apart, recounting such great things that my only sorrows count—and sorrows, little stars. But you, who foolishly judge these words regarding a son, taking away the praise of a parent—be gone, you blockhead, with your shame. So, am I to be the only one silent and senseless while the world rings with shrill proclamations? Is my mother's urn closed to me alone, with only dried-up herbs and withered rosemary? Do I bring my tongue back to my mother only to bite? Go away, you fool! How shamelessly I'm acting here! Yet you, Mother, will be praised forever by your grieving son; these writings owe that to you, for you are the one who raised me. They fill these pages of their own accord, having achieved the greatest fruit of labor by praising a Mother, even when the ignorant object.
Read the original Latin
Corneliae sanctae, graves Semproniae, Et quicquid uspiam est severae foeminae, Conferte lacrymas; Illa quae vos miscuit Vestrasque laudes, poscit et mixtas genas. Namque hanc ruinam salva Gravitas defleat, Pudorque constet vel solutis crinibus; Quandoque vultus sola majestas, Dolor. Decus mulierum periit; et metuunt viri Utrumque sexum dote ne mulctaverit. Non illa soles terere comptu lubricos, Struices superbas atque turritum caput Molita, reliquum deinde garriens diem, (Nam post Babelem linguae adest confusio,) Quin post modestam, qualis integras decet, Substructionem capitis et nimbum brevem, Animam recentem rite curavit sacris Adorta numen acri et ignea prece. Dein familiam lustrat, et res prandii, Horti colique distributim pensitat. Suum cuique tempus et locus datur. Inde exiguntur pensa crudo vespere. Ratione certa vita constat et domus, Prudenter inito quot-diebus calculo.
Tota renident aede decus et suavitas Animo renidentes prius. Sin rarior Magnatis appulsu extulit se occasio, Surrexit una et illa, seseque extulit: Occasione certat imo et obtinet. Proh! quantus imber, quanta labri comitas, Lepos severus, Pallas mixta Gratiis; Loquitur numellas, compedes, et retia; Aut si negotio hora sumenda est, rei Per angiportus et maeandros labitur, Ipsos Catones provocans oraculis. Tum quanta tabulis artifex? quae scriptio? Bellum putamen, nucleus bellissimus Sententiae cum voce mire convenit. Volant per orbem literae notissimae: O blanda dextra, neutiquam istoc pulveris, Quo nunc recumbis, scriptio merita est tua, Pactoli arena tibi tumulus est unicus.
Adde his trientem Musices, quae molliens Mulcensque dotes caeteras, visa est quasi Caelestis harmoniae breve praeludium. Quam mira tandem sublevatrix pauperum? Languentium baculus, teges jacentium, Commune cordis palpitantis balsamum: Benedictiones publicae cingunt caput, Caelique referunt et praeoccupant modum. Fatisco referens tanta quae numerant mei Solum dolores, et dolores, stellulae. At tu qui inepte haec dicta censes filio, Nato parentis auferens Encomium, Abito trunce cum tuis pudoribus. Ergo ipse solum mutus atque excors ero Strepente mundo tinnulis praeconiis? Mihine Matris urna clausa est unico, Herbae exoletae, ros-marinus aridus? Matrine linguam refero, solum ut mordeam?
Abito barde! Quam pie istic sum impudens! Tu vero Mater perpetim laudabere Nato dolenti: literae hoc debent tibi Queis me educasti; sponte chartas illinunt Fructum laborum consecutae maximum Laudando Matrem, cum repugnant inscii.
The Latin Poems companion
Read all 57 of Herbert's Latin poems, one a day
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Herbert's short poems were written for meditative re-reading; Chosen Portion serves one per day, turning the two collections into a two-month devotional cycle
- All 57 Latin poems in modern English, roughly two months of daily readings
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