Faculty Recital
Sunday I April 30, 2023 I 7:30 PM
Faye Spanos Concert Hall
Come raggio di sol (ca. 1911–17)
Che fiero costume, from Eteocle e Polinice (1674)
O del mio dolce ardor, from Paride ed Elena (1769)
An ein Veilchen, from Fünf Lieder, op. 49, no. 2 (1868)
Auf dem Kirchhofe, from Fünf Lieder, op. 105, no. 4 (1887–88)
Botschaft, from Fünf Lieder, op. 47, no. 1, (1868)
Canticle I (1947)
Old American Songs
First Set (1950)
The Boatman’s Dance
The Dodger
Long Time Ago
Simple Gifts
I bought me a cat
Second Set (1952)
The Little Horses
Zion’s Walls
The Golden Willow Tree
At the River
Ching-a-ring Chaw
Intermission
Caldera: Come raggio di sol
Come raggio di sol mite e sereno, Sovre placidi flutti si riposa, Mentre del mare nel profondo seno Sta la tempesta ascosa:
Così riso talor gaio e pacato
Di contento, di gioia un labbro infiora, Mentre nel suo segreto il cor piagato
S’angoscia e si martora.
Anonymous
Legrenzi: Che fiero costume
Che fiero costume
D’aligero nume, Che a forza di pene si faccia adorar!
E pur nell’ ardore
Il dio traditore
Un vago sembiante mi fe’ idolatrar.
Che crudo destino
Che un cieco bambino
Con bocca di latte si faccia stimar!
Ma questo tiranno
Con barbaro inganno, Entrando per gli occhi, mi fe’ sospirar!
Tebaldo FattoriniGluck: O del mio dolce ardor
O del mio dolce ardor
Bramato oggetto, L’aura che tu respiri, Alfin respiro.
O vunque il guardo io giro, Le tue vaghe sembianze
Amore in me dipinge:
Il mio pensier si finge
Le più liete speranze;
E nel desio che così
M’empie il petto
Cerco te, chiamo te, spero e sospiro.
Like a sunbeam
Like a sunbeam, mild and serene, upon placid waves seeks repose, while within the sea's deep clutches a tempest lies hidden:
So blithe and calm laughter sometimes lets one's lips exude contentment, while in secret her wounded heart becomes distressed and tortured.
What fierce power
What fierce power has this winged god, who by punishes to make himself adored! And still in my ardor the traitorous god made me idolize a lovely face.
What a cruel destiny, that a blind child with a mouth of milk, should make himself esteemed! But this tyrant With barbarous deception, Entering through my eyes, made me sigh!
O of my sweet ardor
Oh, desired object of my sweet ardor, the air that you breathe, at last I breathe.
Wherever I turn my glance your lovely features paint love for me: My thoughts imagine the happiest hopes, and in the longing that fills my bosom
I seek you, I call you, I hope, and I sigh.
Brahms: An ein Veilchen
Birg, o Veilchen, in deinem blaue Kelche, Birg die Tränen der Wehmut, bis mein Liebchen
Diese Quelle besucht! Entpflückt sie lächelnd Dich dem Rasen, die Brust mit dir zu schmücken.
O dann schmiege dich ihr ans Herz, und sag ihr,
Daß die Tropfen in deinem blauen Kelche
Aus der Seele des treu'sten Jünglings flossen, Der sein Leben verweinet, und den Tod wünscht.
Ludwig Heinrich Christoph Hölty
Auf dem Kirchhofe
Der Tag ging regenschwer und sturmbewegt, Ich war an manch vergeßnem Grab gewesen, Verwittert Stein und Kreuz, die Kränze alt, Die Namen überwachsen, kaum zu lesen.
Der Tag ging sturmbewegt und regenschwer, Auf allen Gräbern fror das Wort: Gewesen.
Wie sturmestot die Särge schlummerten, Auf allen Gräbern taute still: Genesen.
— Detlev von Liliencron
Botschaft
Wehe, Lüftchen, lind und lieblich
Um die Wange der Geliebten, Spiele zart in ihrer Locke, Eile nicht hinwegzufliehn!
Tut sie dann vielleicht die Frage, Wie es um mich Armen stehe; Sprich: »Unendlich war sein Wehe, Höchst bedenklich seine Lage; Aber jetzo kann er hoffen, Wieder herrlich aufzuleben, Denn du, Holde, denkst an ihn.«
Georg Friedrich Daumer
To a Violet
Hide, o violet, in your blue calyx, hide the tears of my sorrow, until my darling visits this spring! If she smilingly picks you from the grass to adorn her breast with you, oh then nestle yourself to her heart, and tell her that those drops in your blue calyx flowed from the soul of the truest youth, who is weeping away his life and wishes for death.
In the Churchyard
The day was heavy with rain and disturbed by storms; I was walking among many forgotten graves, with weathered stones and crosses, the wreaths old, the names washed away, hardly to be read.
The day was disturbed by storms and heavy with rain; on all graves froze the words: “Has been.”
Dead to the storm the coffins slumbered, on all graves quietly thawed: “Reborn.”
Message
Blow, little breeze, gently and lovingly about the cheeks of my beloved, play tenderly in her locks, do not hasten to flee far away! If perhaps she is then to ask, how it stands with wretched me, tell her: “Unending was his woe, highly dubious was his condition; however, now he can hope magnificently to come to life again, for you, fair one, are thinking of him!”
Britten: Canticle I
E’en like two little bank-dividing brooks, That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams, And having ranged and search’d a thousand nooks, Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames, Where in a greater current they conjoin: So I my Best-beloved’s am; so He is mine.
E’en so we met; and after long pursuit, E’en so we joined; we both became entire; No need for either to renew a suit, For I was flax, and He was flames of fire: Our firm-united souls did more than twine; So I my Best-beloved’s am; so He is mine.
If all those glittering Monarchs, that command The servile quarters of this earthly ball, Should tender in exchange their shares of land, I would not change my fortunes for them all: Their wealth is but a counter to my coin: The world 's but theirs; but my Beloved’s mine.
Nor time, nor place, nor chance, nor death
Can bow my least desires unto the least remove
He’s firmly my by oath, I his by vow
He’s mine by faith, and I am his by love
He’s my mine by water, I am his by wine
Thus I my Best-beloved’s am, thus he is mine
He is my alter, I his holy place
I am his guest, and he my living food
I’m his by penitence, he mine by grace
I’m his by purchase, he is mine by blood
He’s my supporting elm, and I his vine
Thus I my Best-beloved’s am, thus he is mine
He gives my wealth, I give him all my vows
I give him songs, he gives me length of days
With wreathes of grace he crowns my longing brow
And I his temples with a crown of praise
Which he accepts an everlasting sign
That I my Best-beloved’s am, that he is mine
Francis Quarles
