School of Music
U N C G
Stacy Dove
soprano
Rich Auvil, piano
Graduate Recital
Sunday, February 28, 2010
7:30 pm
Recital Hall, School of Music
Program
O qui coeli terraeque serinitas Antonio Vivaldi
I. Allegro (1678-1741)
II. Recitativo
III. Largo
IV. Alleluia
Drei Lieder der Ophelia, Op. 67 (1918) Richard Strauss
Wie erkennʼ ich mein Treulieb vor andern nun? (1864-1949)
Guten Morgen, ʻs ist Sankt Valentinstag
Sie trugen ihn auf der Bahre bloss
O rendetemi la speme… Qui la voce from I Puritani (1835) Vincenzo Bellini
(1801-1835)
Intermission
Early Snow (2003) Lori Laitman
Last Night the Rain Spoke to Me (b. 1955)
Blue Iris
Early Snow
Chansons de Ronsard, Op. 223 (1940) Darius Milhaud
À une fontaine (1892-1974)
À cupidon
Dieu vous gard
Les filles de Cadix Léo Delibes
(1836-1891)
Stacy Dove is a student of Dr. Nancy Walker
________
In partial fulfillment of the degree requirements for the
Master of Music in Performance
Antonio Vivaldi:
O qui coeli terraeque serinitas
Anonymous
Allegro
O qui coeli terraeque serinitas
et fons lucis et arbiter es,
Unda regis aeterna tua sidera
mitis considera
nostra nota, clamores, et spes.
Recitative
Fac ut virescat tellus
dum respicimus coelum;
fac ut bona superna
constanter diligamus
et sperantes aeterna
quidquid caducam est odio habeamus.
Largo
Rosa quae moritur,
unda quae labitur,
mundi delicias
docent fugaces.
Vix fronte amabili
mulcent cum labile
pede praetervolant
larvae falaces.
Alleluia
Alleluia!
Richard Strauss:
Drei lieder der Ophelia
William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
German Translation: Karl Simrock
Wie erkenn ich mein Treulieb vor andern nun?
Wie erkenn ich mein Treulieb vor andern nun?
An dem Muschelhut und Stab
und den Sandalschuhn.
Er ist tot und lange hin,
tot und hin, Fräulein!
Ihm zu Häupten grünes Gras,
ihm zu Fuβ ein Stein. Oho!
Auf seinem Bahrtuch, weiβ wie Schnee,
viel liebe Blumen trauern.
Oh you who are the peace of heaven and
earth
Allegro
Oh you who are the peace of heaven & earth
its judge and the source of all light
look down from where you eternally guide the
stars
kindly consider
our prayers, cries, and hopes.
Recitative
Cause the earth to seem unclean
when we consider the heaven;
cause that we resolutely strive
for supreme goodness
and in the hope of eternal life
that which perishable, we find hateful to
behold.
Largo
The rose which dies,
the water which ebbs away,
earthly delights
teach us their transitory nature.
Scarcely has its pleasant appearance
enticed us with false charms
when with fleeting-foot they pass by
these deceitful evil spirits.
Alleluia
Alleluia!
Three songs of Ophelia
How should I recognize my true love from
among others now?
How should I recognize my true love from
among others now?
By the cockle hat and staff
and the sandal shoes.
He is dead and long since gone,
dead and gone, lady!
Green grass is at his head,
at his feet a stone. Oho!
On his pall, white as snow,
many dear flowers mourn.
Sie gehn zu Grabe naβ,
O weh! vor Liebesschauern.
Guten morgen, ʻs ist Sankt Valentinstag
Guten morgen, ʻs ist Sankt Valentinstag,
so früh vor Sonnenshein.
Ich junge Maid am Fensterschlag
will Euer Valentin sein.
Der junge Mann tut Hosen an,
tät auf die Kammertür,
leiβ ein die Maid, die als Maid
ging nimmermehr herfür.
Bei Sankt Niklas und Charitas,
ein unverschämt Geschlect!
Ein junger Mann tutʼs, wenn er kann,
fürwahr, das ist nicht recht.
Sie sprach: Eh ihr gescherzt mit mir,
verspracht Ihr mich zu frein.
Ich brächʼs auch nicht beim Sonnenlicht,
wärst du nicht kommen herein.
Sie trugen ihn auf der Bahre bloss
Sie trugen ihn auf der Bahre bloβ
leider, ach leider, den Liebsten!
Manche Träne fiel in des Grabes Schoβ!
Fahr wohl, meine Taube!
Mein junger frischer Hansel istʼs,
der mir gefällt -- und kommt er nimmermehr?
Er ist tot, o weh!
In dein Totbett geh,
er kommt dir nimmermehr.
Sein Bart war weiβ wie Schnee,
sein Haupt wie Flachs dazu.
Er ist hin,
kein Trauern bringt Gewinn:
Mit seiner Seele Ruh
und mit allen Christenseelen!
Darum bet ich: Gott sei mit euch!
Vincenzo Bellini:
O Rendetemi la speme… Qui la voce
from I Puritani
Count Carlo Pepoli (1796-1881)
O rendetemi la speme o lasciatemi morir.
Qui la voce sua soave
mi chiamava, e poi sparì.
Qui giurava esser fedele,
qui il giurava
E poi crudele, mi fuggì!
Ah, mai più qui assorti insieme
nella gioia dei sospir.
They go to the grave bewept,
O woe! By loveʼs showers.
Good morning, itʼs Saint Valentineʼs Day
Good morning, itʼs Saint Valentineʼs Day,
so early before sunlight.
I, a young maid at the window,
want to be your Valentine.
The young man dons his hose,
opened the chamber door,
let in the maid,who never again
went out as a maid.
By Saint Nicolas and Charity,
men are a shameless sex!
A young man does it, when he can,
truly, that is not right.
She spoke: “Before you had your fun with me,
you promised to court me.”
--“I wouldnʼt have broken my promise, by the
sunlight, if you hadnʼt come in.”
They carried him on the bier uncovered
They carried him uncovered on the bier,
alas, oh alas, the dearest man!
Many a tear fell into his grave --
Farewell, my dove!
It is my young, fresh Hansel
whom I like -- and comes he nevermore?
He is dead, O woe!
Go to your death-bed,
He comes to you nevermore.
His beard was white as snow,
his hair like flax as well.
He is gone,
it is useless to mourn:
peace be with his soul
and with all Christian souls!
Therefore I pray: God be with you!
Either return to me my hope… Here his
voice
Oh, return to me my hope or let me die.
Here his soft voice
called me, and then vanished.
Here he swore to be faithful,
this he promised,
and then cruelly, fled from me!
Oh! No longer to be joined together
in the joy of sighing.
Vien, diletto, è in ciel la luna!
Tutto tace intorno intorno;
finchè spunti in cielo il giorno;
Vien, ti posa sul mio cor!
Deh tʼaffretta, o Arturo mio,
riedi, o caro, alla tua Elvira:
essa piange e ti sospira,
vien, o caro, allʼamore.
Lori Laitman:
Early Snow
Mary Oliver (b. 1935)
Last night the rain spoke to me
Last night
the rain
spoke to me
slowly, saying,
what joy
to come falling
out of the brisk cloud,
to be happy again
in a new way
on the earth!
Thatʼs what it said
as it dropped,
smelling of iron,
and vanished
like a dream of the ocean
into the branches
and the grass below.
Then it was over.
the sky cleared.
I was standing
under a tree.
The tree was a tree
with happy leaves,
and I was myself,
and there were stars in the sky
that were also themselves
at the moment,
at which moment
my right hand
was holding my left hand
which was holding the tree
which was filled with stars
and the soft rain –
imagine! imagine!
the long and wondrous journey
still to be ours.
Come, beloved, the moon is in the sky!
Everything is quiet around us;
until day breaks in the sky;
come and alight upon my heart!
Hurry, oh my Arthur,
return, my dear, to your Elvira:
she cries and sighs for you,
come, my dear, to love.
Blue Iris
Now that Iʼm free to be myself, who am I?
Canʼt fly, canʼt run and see how slowly I walk.
Well, I think, I can read books.
“Whatʼs that youʼre doing?”
the green-headed fly shouts as it buzzes past.
I close the book.
Well, I can write down words like these softly.
“Whatʼs that youʼre doing?” whispers the wind,
pausing in a heap just outside the window.
Give me a little time, I say, back to its staring,
silver face. It doesnʼt happen all of a sudden,
you know.
“Doesnʼt it?” says the wind, and breaks open,
releasing distillation of blue iris.
And my heart panics not to be as I long to be,
the empty, waiting, pure, speechless
receptacle.
Early Snow
Amazed I looked
out of the window and saw
the early snow coming down casually,
almost drifting, over
the gardens, then the gardens began
to vanish as each white, six-pointed
snowflake lay down without a sound with all
the others. I thought, how incredible
were their numbers. I thought of dried
leaves drifting spate after spate
out of the forests,
the fallen sparrows, the hairs of all our heads
as, still, the snowflakes went on pouring softly
through
what had become dusk or anyway flung
a veil over the sun. And I thought
how not one looks like another
though each is exquisite, fanciful, and
falls without argument. It was now nearly
evening. Some crows landed and tried
to walk around then flew off. They were
perhaps
laughing in crow talk or anyway so it seemed,
and I might have joined in, there was
something
that wonderful and refreshing
about what was by then a confident white
blanket
carrying out its
cheerful work, covering ruts, softening
the earthʼs trials, but at the same time
there was some kind of almost sorrow that fell
over me. It was
the loneliness again. After all
what is Nature, it isnʼt
kindness, it isnʼt unkindness. And I turned
and opened the door, and still the snow poured
down,
smelling of iron and the pale, vast eternal, and
there it was, whether I was ready or not:
the silence; the blank, white, glittering sublime.
Darius Milhaud:
Chansons de Ronsard
Pierre Ronsard (1524-1585)
À une fontaine
Écoute moi, fontaine vive,
En qui jʼai rebu si souvent,
Couché tout plat dessus ta rive,
Oisif à la fraicheur du vent,
Quand lʼÉté ménager moissonne
Le sein de Cérès dévêtu,
Et lʼaire par compas résonne
Gémissant sous le blé battu,
Ainsi toujours puisses-tu être
En religion à tous ceux
Qui te boiront ou fairont paitre
Tes vers rivage à leurs boeufs.
Ainsi toujours la lune claire
Voie à minuit au fond dʼun val
Les nymphes, près de ton repaire,
À mille bonds, mener le bal!
À Cupidon
Le jour pousse la nuit
Et la nuit sombre
Pousse le jour qui luit
Dʼune obscure ombre.
Lʼautomne suit lʼété
Et lʼâpre rage
Des vents nʼa point été
Après lʼorage.
Mais la fièvre dʼamours
Qui me tourmente,
Demeure en moi toujours,
Et ne sʼalente.
Ce nʼétait pas moi, Dieu,
Quʼil fallait poindre,
Ta flêche en dʼautre lieu
Se devait joindre.
Poursuis les paresseux
Et les amuse,
Mais non pas moi, ni ceux
Quʼaime la Muse.
Dieu vous gardʼ
Dieu vous gardʼ, messager fidèles
Du printemps, gentes hirondelles,
Huppes, coucous, rosignolets,
Tourtres et vous oiseaux sauvages
Songs of Ronsard
To a fountain
Listen to me, little lively fountain,
On whose banks I often rest,
Laying beneath the mountain,
Lazy in the coolness of the breeze.
When frugal summer is reclaiming
The fruit of Ceresʼ bared breast,
With every threshing floor exclaiming,
Beneath the weight of her bequest,
Like always, you remain forever
A sacred place for all those
Who drink or make green pastures
for their animals.
And may the clear moon
See at midnight in the valley,
The nymphs, that rally here for dancing,
A thousand jumps in the dance!
To Cupid
The day pushes the night
and the dark night
pushes the day
gleaming with
Autumn follows summer
and the winds rage
no longer
after the storm.
But the fever of love
that torments me still,
burns in me always,
forever unabated.
It is not me, god,
at whom you should have aimed,
Some other might enjoy
being thus maimed.
Go after the lazy
and amuse them,
But not me, or those
who love the Muse!
God protect you
God protect you, faithful messengers
of spring, gentle swallows,
Hoopoes, cuckoos, little nightengales,
turtledoves and you wild birds
Qui de cent sortes de ramages
Animez les bois verdelets.
Dieu vous gardʼ, belles pâquerettes
Belles roses, belles fleurettes,
Et vous, boutons jadis connus
Du sang dʼAjax et Narcisse ;
Et vous, thym, anis et mélisse,
Vous soyez les bien revenus.
Dieu vous gardʼ, troupe diaprée
Des papillons, qui par la prée
Les douces herbes suçotez;
Et vous, nouvel essaim dʼabeilles,
Qui les fleurs jaunes et vermeilles
De votre bouche baisotez.
Cent mille fois je resalue
Votre belle et douce venue.
O que jʼaime cette saison
Et ce doux caquet des rivages,
Au prix des vents et des orages
Qui mʼenfermaient à la maison.
Léo Delibes:
Les filles de Cadix
Alfred de Musset (1810-1857)
Nous venions de voir le taureau,
Trois garçons, trois fillettes,
Sur la pelouse il faisait beau,
Et nous dansions un boléro
Au son des castignettes:
Dites-moi, voisin,
Si jʼai bonne mine,
Et si ma basquine
Va bien ce matin.
Vous me trouvez la taille fine?
Ah! Les filles de Cadix aiment assez cela.
Et nous dansions un boléro,
Un soir, cʼétait dimanche.
Vers nous sʼen vient un hidalgo,
Cousu dʼor la plume au chapeau,
Et la poing sur la hanche:
Si tu veux de moi,
Brune au doux souririe,
Tu nʼas quʼà le dire,
Cete or est à toi.
Passez votre chemin, beau sire,
Ah! Les filles de Cadix nʼentendent pas cela.
Who, with a hundred kinds of songs
Enliven the woods.
God protect you, lovely daisies,
Beautiful roses, beautiful little flowers,
And you, buds once known
For the blood of Ajax and Narcisses.
And you, thyme, anise and balm,
You are all welcome here.
God protect you, flight of multi-colored
Butterflies, who across the meadow
Suck on the sweet herbs;
And you, new swarm of bees,
Who the flowers red and yellow
Kiss with your mouths.
A hundred-thousand times I repeatedly salute
Your beautiful and sweet coming;
O how I love this season
And the soft clucking on the banks,
More than the winds and the storms
Which have shut me in my house.
The Maids of Cadiz
We had just seen the bull fight,
Three boys, three little girls,
On the lawn it was a beautiful day,
and we danced a bolero
To the sound of castanets:
Tell me, neighbor,
If my looks please you,
And if my skirt
Is becoming this morning.
Do you find my waist slender?
Ah! The maids of Cadiz rather like that.
And we danced a bolero,
One evening, it was Sunday.
Toward us came a dashing Spaniard,
Extremely wealthy, a feather in his hat,
And a hand on his hip:
“If you want me,
Brunette with the sweet smile,
You donʼt have to say it.
This gold is for you.”
Pass on your way, handsome sir,
Ah! The maids of Cadiz donʼt listen to that.
