SR
The Latin Poems/Book 1 · Memoriae Matris Sacrum
Chapter 7HerbL.1.7

Pallida materni Genii

The Phantom of Memory

The speaker questions the validity of a ghostly, pale vision of his mother that fails to provide true comfort.

Have the joys of a pale, bloodless image of a motherly spirit, and of things like you in the clouds, changed? And is it a deceptive phantom for me instead of a Mother, and airy breasts that fail the child who reaches for them? Woe to the cloud heavy with rain, not milk, and to the one who smiles at my tears, for they are the only things that share the same color as the water. Why don't you flee?

The Idealized Mother

The speaker contrasts his current vision with a more noble, divine image of his mother and pledges his devotion to that true face.

My Juno wasn't so clouded, nor was the face of the spring dawn so sluggish, nor was the mother so languid, cast down upon fleeting ash; but an august parent, a holy face meant for heaven, such as Astraea preferred when she was about to leave the marshy retreats, or Themis, hanging from an ancient throne and settling disputes with a sharp judgment. Show me this face, and I'll spend what remains of my life with you, a noble specter; and I'll attach myself alone, without a murmur, to your yoke.

A Garden of Quiet Devotion

The speaker renounces worldly ambitions to cultivate a simple, fragrant life of contemplation with the true spirit of his mother.

I won't complain that the days have slipped away while I was consumed by my studies, nor will I turn a stifled Minerva or drawn-out hopes and bearded dreams into a vice in a barren world, to which I yield its own comets, as if to something worthy, and its pale stars. I have a small house in the country with ten rafters, and a small garden whose space struggles with the fleece of flowers, yet one that the master of fair judgment chooses, so that the flowers, crowded together, may breathe more closely, and the garden, impenetrable to rough hands, may be like a growing bouquet and a nest of scents. Here you and I will be, fed daily on the fragrance of various herbs; only put on a true face and an affection like my own, and don't mix languid expressions into my mindful heart, so that we don't disturb the spirited, tender scents of the flowers with a mismatched appearance, and so that our joys, too, might not wither among the other growing things of the garden by the same fate.

Read the original Latin

Pallida materni Genii atque exsanguis imago, In nebulas similesque tui res gaudia numquid Mutata? et pro Matre mihi phantasma dolosum Uberaque aeria hiscentem fallentia natum? Vae nubi pluvia gravidae, non lacte, measque Ridenti lacrymas quibus unis concolor unda est. Quin fugias? mea non fuerat tam nubila Juno, Tam segnis facies aurorae nescia vernae, Tam languens genitrix cineri supposta fugaci; Verum augusta parens, sanctum os caeloque locandum, Quale paludosos jam jam lictura recessus Praetulit Astraea, aut solio Themis alma vetusto Pensilis, atque acri dirimens Examine lites. Hunc vultum ostendas, et tecum nobile spectrum Quod superest vitae, insumam; Solisque jugales Ipse tuae solum adnectam, sine murmure, thensae. Nec querar ingratos, studiis dum tabidus insto, Effluxisse dies, suffocatamve Minervam, Aut spes productas, barbataque somnia vertam In vicium mundo sterili, cui cedo cometas Ipse suos, tanquam digno, pallentiaque astra. Est mihi bis quinis laqueata domuncula tignis Rure; brevisque hortus, cujus cum vellere florum Luctatur spatium, qualem tamen eligit aequi Judicii dominus, flores ut junctius halent Stipati, rudibusque volis impervius hortus Sit quasi fasciculus crescens, et nidus odorum.

Hic ego tuque erimus, variae suffitibus herbae Quotidie pasti: tantum verum indue vultum Affectusque mei similem; nec languida misce Ora meae memori menti: ne dispare cultu Pugnaces, teneros florum turbemus odores, Atque inter reliquos horti crescentia foetus Nostra etiam paribus marcescant gaudia fatis.

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