Jordan Winslow
soprano
Emily Russ, piano
Graduate Recital
Thursday, April 23, 2015
5:30 pm
Recital Hall, Music Building
Program
À Chloris (1916) Reynaldo Hahn
Quand je fus pris au pavillon (1899) (1874-1947)
L’Énamourée (1895)
Le Printemps (1899)
Deità Silvane (1926) Ottorino Respighi
I fauni (1879-1936)
Musica in horto
Egle
Acqua
Crepuscolo
Intermission
Am See (1817) Franz Schubert
Gretchens Bitte (1817) (1797-1828)
Gretchen am Spinnrade (1814)
A Song for the Lord Mayor’s Table (1962) William Walton
The Lord Mayor’s Table (1902-1983)
Glide gently
Wapping Old Stairs
Holy Thursday
The contrast
Rhyme
Jordan Winslow is a student of Ms. Clara O’Brien
________
In partial fulfillment of the degree requirements for the
Master of Music in Performance
Reynaldo Hahn:
À Chloris
Text by Théophile de Viau (1590-1626)
S'il est vrai, Chloris, que tu m'aimes,
Mais j'entends, que tu m'aimes bien,
Je ne crois point que les rois mêmes
Aient un bonheur pareil au mien.
Que la mort serait importune
De venir changer ma fortune
A la félicité des cieux!
Tout ce qu'on dit de l'ambroisie
Ne touche point ma fantaisie
Au prix des grâces de tes yeux.
Quand je fus pris au pavillon
Text by Charles Duc d'Orléans (1394-1465)
Quand je fus pris au pavillon
De ma dame, très gente et belle,
Je me brûlai à la chandelle
Ainsi que fait le papillon.
Je rougis comme vermillon,
A la clarté d'une étincelle,
Quand je fus pris au pavillon
De ma dame, très gente et belle.
Si j'eusse été esmerillon
Ou que j'eusse eu aussi bonne aile,
Je me fusse gardé de celle
Qui me bailla de l'aiguillon
Quand je fus pris au pavillon.
L’Énamourée
Text by Théodore Faullin de Banville
(1823-1891)
Ils se disent, ma colombe,
Que tu rêves, morte encore,
Sous la pierre d'une tombe:
Mais pour l'âme qui t'adore
Tu t'éveilles ranimée,
Ô pensive bien-aimée!
Par les blanches nuits d'étoiles,
Dans la brise qui murmure,
Je caresse tes longs voiles,
Ta mouvante chevelure,
Et tes ailes demi-closes
Qui voltigent sur les roses.
Ô délices! je respire
Tes divines tresses blondes;
Ta voix pure, cette lyre,
Suit la vague sur les ondes,
Et, suave, les effleure,
Comme un cygne qui se pleure!
To Chloris
If it is true, Chloris, that you love me,
And I understand, that you love me well,
I do not believe that even kings
Could have a happiness equal to mine.
How the death would be unwelcome,
If it were to exchange my present state
For the joy of heaven!
All that they say of ambrosia
Does not inspire my imagination
Like the favor of your eyes.
When I was caught in the pavilion
When I was caught in the pavilion
Of my lady, most noble and beautiful,
I burnt myself in the flame of the candle
As does the butterfly.
I blushed crimson red,
In the brightness of a spark,
When I was caught in the pavilion
Of my lady, most noble and beautiful.
If I had been a merlin
Or had wings as strong,
I would have shielded myself from her
Who stung me with her dart
When I was caught in the pavilion.
The Enamored
They say, my dove,
That you are still dead and dreaming,
Beneath the headstone of a grave:
But for the soul which adores you,
You awaken reanimated,
Oh thoughtful beloved!
Through the sleepless star-filled night,
In the breeze that murmurs,
I caress your long veils,
Your flowing hair,
And your wings half-closed
Which flutter among the roses.
Oh delights! I breathe
Your divine blond tresses;
Your pure voice, a kind of lyre,
Moves on the swell of the waters
And touches them gently, suavely,
Like a lamenting swan!
Le printemps
Text by Théodore Faullin de Banville
(1823 - 1891)
Te voilà, rire du Printemps!
Les thyrses des lilas fleurissent.
Les amantes, qui te chérissent
Délivrent leurs cheveux flottants.
Sous les rayons d'or éclatants
Les anciens lierres se flétrissent.
Te voilà, rire du Printemps!
Les thyrses des lilas fleurissent.
Couchons-nous au bord des étangs,
Que nos maux amers se guérissent!
Mille espoirs fabuleux nourrissent
Nos coeurs émus et palpitants.
Te voilà, rire du Printemps!
Ottorino Respighi:
Deità Silvane
Text by Antonio Rubino (1880-1964)
I fauni
S'odono al monte i saltellanti rivi
Murmureggiare per le forre astruse,
S'odono al bosco gemer cornamuse
Con garrito di pifferi giulivi.
E i fauni in corsa per dumeti e clivi,
Erti le corna sulle fronti ottuse,
Bevono per lor nari camuse
Filtri sottili e zeffiri lascivi.
E, mentre in fondo al gran coro alberato
Piange d'amore per la vita bella
La sampogna dell'arcade pastore,
Contenta e paurosa dell'agguato,
Fugge ogni ninfa più che fiera snella,
Ardendo in bocca come ardente fiore.
Musica in horto
Uno squillo di cròtali clangenti
Rompe in ritmo il silenzio dei roseti,
Mentre in fondo agli aulenti orti segreti
Gorgheggia un flauto liquidi lamenti.
La melodia, con tintinnio d'argenti,
Par che a vicenda s'attristi e s'allieti,
Spring
You are here, laughter of Spring!
The sprays of lilac are blooming.
The lovers, who you cherish
Loosen their flowing hair.
Beneath the beams of glistening gold
The ancient ivy withers.
You are here, laughter of Spring!
The sprays of lilacs are blooming.
Let us lie beside the ponds,
That our bitter wounds may heal!
A thousand fabled hopes nourish
Our full and beating hearts,
You are here, laughter of Spring!
Forest Gods
The fauns
One hears the bubbling streams in the hills
Murmuring through the secluded ravines,
One hears the sighs of bagpipes in the
woods
With the chirp of merry fifes.
And the fauns running through thickets
and over hills,
Their horns erect above their broad
foreheads,
Drink through their flattened nostrils
Fine potions and lascivious winds.
And, while beneath the great choir of trees,
They weep, for love of the beautiful life
The bagpipe of the Arcadian shepherd.
Happy and fearful of the impending
ambush
Every nymph flees, more agile than wild
beasts,
Their lips burning like blazing flowers!
Garden music
A clash of ringing finger-cymbals
Rhythmically breaks the silence of the rose
gardens,
While at the end of the fragrant, secret
gardens
A flute warbles its liquid lamentations.
The melody, with the tinkling of silver bells,
Seems to alternate between sadness and joy,
Ora luce di tremiti inquieti,
Or diffondendo lunghe ombre dolenti:
Cròtali arguti e canne variotocche!
Una gioia di cantici inespressi
Per voi par che dai chiusi orti rampolli,
E in sommo dei rosai, che cingon molli
Ghirlande al cuor degli intimi recessi,
S'apron le rose come molli bocche!
Egle
Frondeggia il bosco d'uberi verzure,
Volgendo i rii zaffiro e margherita:
Per gli archi verdi un'anima romita
Cinge pallidi fuochi a ridde oscure.
E in te ristretta con le mani pure
Come le pure fonti della vita,
Di sole e d'ombre mobili vestita
Tu danzi, Egle, con languide misure.
E a te candida e bionda tra li ninfe,
D'ilari ambagi descrivendo il verde,
Sotto i segreti ombracoli del verde,
Ove la più inquïeta ombra s'attrista,
Perle squillanti e liquido ametista
Volge la gioia roca delle linfe.
Acqua
Acqua, e tu ancora sul tuo flauto lene
Intonami un tuo canto variolungo,
Di cui le note abbian l'odor del fungo,
Del musco e dell'esiguo capelvenere,
Sì che per tutte le sottili vene,
-Onde irrighi la fresca solitudine,
Il tuo riscintillio rida e sublùdii
Al gemmar delle musiche serene.
Acqua, e, lungh'essi i calami volubili
Movendo in gioco le cerulee dita,
Avvicenda più lunghe ombre alle luci,
Tu che con modi labii deduci
Sulla mia fronte intenta e sulla vita
Del verde fuggitive ombre di nubi.
Now shining with an agitated, flickering
light,
Now casting long sorrowful shadows:
Ringing finger-cymbals and many-sounding
pipes!
A joy of inexpressible hymns
Seem to rise from the closed gardens,
And at the top of the rose bushes, that
weave soft
Garlands about the heart of the deepest
recesses,
The roses open like soft mouths!
Aegle
The forest is heavy with fertile vegetation,
Turning the brooks sapphire and pearly
white:
Through the green arches a lonely heart
Winds pale fires to obscure twirling dances.
And lost in thought, with hands as pure
As the pure springs of life,
Dressed in shimmering clothes of sun and
shadow
You dance, Aegle, with languid steps.
And to you, innocent and fair nymph,
With merry dancing like the foliage,
Beneath the hidden green shadows,
Where the restless spirit grieves,
In intense pearl and liquid amethyst
Turns the raw joy of the saps.
Water
Water, once again on your sweet flute
Play for me one of your many-changing
songs,
Whose notes seem to have the scent of
mushrooms,
Of moss and of the tiny maidenhair fern,
So that through all the fine streams
That irrigate the fresh solitude,
Your sparkling presents laughs and ripples
To the adornment of the serene music.
Water, while the thin reeds along your
banks
Playfully move their blue fingers,
Creating longer flickering shadows in the
light,
You see along your winding way
On my contemplative forehead and on the
living
Green of the earth, the fleeting shadows of
clouds.
Crepuscolo
Nell'orto abbandonato ora l'edace
Muschio contende all'ellere i recessi,
E tra il coro snelletto dei cipressi
S'addorme in grembo dell'antica pace
Pan. Sul vasto marmoreo torace,
Che i convovoli infiorano d'amplessi,
Un tempo forse con canti sommessi
Piegò una ninfa il bel torso procace.
Deità della terra, forza lieta!
Troppo pensiero è nella tua vecchiezza:
Per sempre inaridita è la tua fonte.
Muore il giorno, e nell'alta ombra inquïeta
Trema e s'attrista un canto d'allegrezza:
Lunghe ombre azzurre scendono dal
monte...
Franz Schubert:
Am See, D. 746
Text by Franz Seraph Ritter von Bruchmann
(1798-1867)
In des Sees Wogenspiele
Fallen durch den Sonnenschein
Sterne, ach, gar viele, viele,
Flammend leuchtend stets hinein.
Wenn der Mensch zum See geworden,
In der Seele Wogenspiele
Fallen aus des Himmels Pforten
Sterne, ach, gar viele, viele.
Gretchens Bitte, D. 564
Text by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
(1749-1832), from Faust
Ach neige,
Du Schmerzenreiche,
Dein Antlitz gnädig meiner Not!
Das Schwert im Herzen,
Mit tausend Schmerzen
Blickst auf zu deines Sohnes Tod.
Zum Vater blickst du,
Und Seufzer schickst du
Hinauf um sein' und deine Not.
Wer fühlet,
Wie wühlet
Der Schmerz mir im Gebein?
Was mein armes Herz hier banget,
Twilight
In the abandoned garden, now the invasive
Moss fights with the ivy for the hidden
recesses,
And among the slender choir of cypresses
Falls asleep in the lap of an ancient peace
Pan. On the large torso of marble
That morning-glories cover with flowery
embraces,
Once, perhaps, with soft songs
A nymph leaned her lovely breasts.
God of the earth, joyful power!
You have become too serious in your old
age:
Your fountain has dried up forever.
The day dies, and through the vast, restless
shade
A song of happiness trembles and turns
sad:
Long blue shadows descend from the
mountain...
By the lake
Into the play of waves on the lake
Fall through the sunshine
Stars, ah, so many, many,
Blazing and shining.
When man has become the lake,
Into the play of waves of the soul
Will fall out of heaven's gates
Stars, ah, so many, many.
Gretchen’s Prayer
Ah, incline,
You who are full of sorrow,
Your face graciously to my distress!
A sword in your heart,
With a thousand pains,
You gaze upon your son’s death.
If you lift your gaze to the Father,
And you send sighs
Upwards for his and your distress.
Who feels,
How insidiously
The pain gnaws at my bones?
What my poor heart fears here,
Was es zittert, was verlanget,
Weißt nur du, nur du allein!
Wohin ich immer gehe
Wie weh, wie weh, wie wehe
Wird mir im Busen hier!
Ich bin, ach, kaum alleine,
Ich wein', ich wein', ich weine,
Das Herz zerbricht in mir.
Gretchen am Spinnrade, Op. 2
Text by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
(1749-1832), from Faust
Meine Ruh' ist hin,
Mein Herz ist schwer,
Ich finde sie nimmer
Und nimmermehr.
Wo ich ihn nicht hab
Ist mir das Grab,
Die ganze Welt
Ist mir vergällt.
Mein armer Kopf
Ist mir verrückt,
Mein armer Sinn
Ist mir zerstückt.
Nach ihm nur schau ich
Zum Fenster hinaus,
Nach ihm nur geh ich
Aus dem Haus.
Sein hoher Gang,
Sein' edle Gestalt,
Seine Mundes Lächeln,
Seiner Augen Gewalt,
Und seiner Rede
Zauberfluß,
Sein Händedruck,
Und ach, sein Kuß!
Mein Busen drängt sich
Nach ihm hin.
Ach, dürft ich fassen
Und halten ihn,
Und küssen ihn,
So wie ich wollt,
An seinen Küssen
Vergehen sollt!
O könnt ich ihn küssen,
So wie ich wollt,
An seinen Küssen
Vergehen sollt!
How it trembles, what it longs for,
Only you alone can know!
Wherever I go
How it aches, how it aches, how it aches
Here in my bosom!
Ah, I am hardly alone,
I weep, I weep, I weep,
My heart breaking within me.
Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel
My peace is gone,
My heart is heavy,
I will find it never
And nevermore.
Where I do not have him
That is the grave,
The whole world
Is bitter to me.
My poor head
Is crazy to me,
My poor mind
Is torn apart.
I look only for him
Out the window,
Only for him do I go
Out of the house.
His superior way of walking,
His noble figure,
His mouth’s smile,
His eyes’ power
And his speech
Magic-flow,
His handclasp,
And Ah! His kiss!
My bosom presses itself
Onward to him.
Ah, might I grasp
And hold him!
And kiss him,
As much I want,
From his kisses
I would die!
Oh, could I kiss him,
As much I want,
From his kisses
I would die!
William Walton:
A Song for the Lord Mayor’s Table
The Lord Mayor’s Table
Text by Thomas Jordan (1612-1685)
Let all the Nine Muses lay by their abuses,
Their railing and drolling on tricks of the
Strand,
To pen us a ditty in praise of the City,
Their treasure, and pleasure, their pow'r
and command.
Their feast, and guest, so temptingly drest,
Their kitchens all kingdoms replenish;
In bountiful bowls they do succour their
souls,
With claret, Canary and Rhenish:
Their lives and wives in plenitude thrives,
They want not for meat nor money;
The Promised Land's in a Londoner's hand,
They wallow in milk and honey.
Let all the Nine Muses lay by their abuses,
Their railing and drolling on tricks of the
Strand
To pen us a ditty in praise of the City,
Their treasure, and pleasure, their pow'r
and command.
Glide gently
Text by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
Glide gently, thus for ever, ever glide,
O Thames! that other bards may see
As lovely visions by thy side
As now, fair river! Come to me.
O glide, fair stream, for ever so,
Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,
Till all our minds forever flow
As thy deep waters now are flowing.
Wapping Old Stairs
Anonymous
Your Molly has never been false, she
declares,
Since last time we parted at Wapping Old
Stairs,
When I swore that I still would continue the
same,
And gave you the 'bacco box, marked with
your name.
When I pass'd a whole fortnight between
decks with you,
Did I e'er give a kiss, Tom, to one of the
crew?
To be useful and kind, with my Thomas I
stay'd,
For his trousers I wash'd, and his grog too I
made.
Though you threaten'd, last Sunday, to
walk in the Mall
With Susan from Deptford, and likewise
with Sal,
In silence I stood your unkindness to hear,
And only upbraided my Tom, with a tear.
Why should Sal, or should Susan, than me
be more priz'd?
For the heart that is true, Tom, should ne'er
be despis'd;
Then be constant and kind, nor your Molly
forsake,
Still your trousers I'll wash, and your grog
too I'll make.
Holy Thursday
Text by William Blake (1757-1827)
'Twas on a holy Thursday, their innocent
faces clean,
The children walking two and two, in red
and blue and green:
Gray-headed beadles walked before, with
wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of St Paul's they like
Thames waters flow.
O what a multitude they seemed, these
flowers of London town!
Seated in companies they sit, with radiance
all their own.
The hum of multitudes was there, but
multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of little boys and girls raising
their innocent hands.
Now like a mighty wind they raise to
heaven the voice of song,
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of
heaven among;
Beneath them sit the aged men, wise
guardians of the poor:
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel
from your door.
The contrast
Text by Charles Morris (1745-1838)
In London I never knew what I'd be at,
Enraptured with this, and enchanted by
that,
I'm wild with the sweets of variety's plan,
And life seems a blessing too happy for
man.
But the country, Lord help me!, sets all
matters right,
So calm and composing from morning to
night;
Oh! it settles the spirit when nothing is seen
In the country, if Cupid should find a man
out,
The poor tortured victim mopes hopeless
about,
But in London, thank Heaven! our peace is
secure,
Where for one eye to kill, there's a thousand
to cure.
I know love's a devil, too subtle to spy,
That shoots through the soul, from the
beam of an eye;
But in London these devils so quick fly
about,
That a new devil still drives an old devil
out.
But an ass on a common, a goose on a
green.
Your magpies and stock doves may flirt
among trees,
And chatter their transports in groves, if
they please:
But a house is much more to my taste than a
tree,
And for groves, O! a good grove of
chimneys for me.
Rhyme
Anonymous
Gay go up and gay go down,
To ring the bells of London Town.
Oranges and lemons
Say the bells of St. Clement's.
Bull's eyes and targets,
Say the bells of St. Margaret's.
Brickbats and tiles,
Say the bells of St. Giles'.
Half-pence and farthings,
Say the bells of St. Martin's.
Pancakes and fritter's,
Say the bells of St. Peter's.
Two sticks and an apple,
Say the bells of Whitechapel.
Pokers and tongs,
Say the bells of St. John's.
Kettles and pans,
Say the bells of St. Anne's.
Old father baldpate,
Say the slow bells of Aldgate.
You owe me ten shillings,
Say the bells of St. Helen's.
When will you pay me?
Say the bells of Old Bailey.
When I grow rich,
Say the bells of Shoreditch.
Pray when will that be?
Say the bells of Stepney.
I do not know,
Says the great bell of Bow.
Gay go up and gay go down,
To ring the bells of London Town.
