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 Fattorini

Gluck: 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