Margaret Weckworth
soprano
Nancy Davis, piano
Ethan Price
baritone
Jeremy Harris, piano
Junior Recital
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
5:30 pm
Recital Hall, Music Building
Program
Sì, tra i ceppi from Berenice George Frideric Handel
(1685-1759)
Va per lo mare Alessandro Scarlatti
(1660-1725)
Mr. Price
Noi donne poverine from La Finta Giardiniera (1775) Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
Ms. Weckworth (1756-1791)
Deh, vieni alla finesta from Don Giovanni (1787)
Mr. Price
Là ci darem la mano from Don Giovanni (1787)
Ms. Weckworth and Mr. Price
Lachen und Weinen Franz Schubert
Heiss mich nicht reden (1797-1828)
Jäger, ruhe von der Jagd!
Ms. Weckworth
Verborgenheit Hugo Wolf
Er ist’s (1860-1903)
Mr. Price
Nell Gabriel Fauré
Lydia (1845-1924)
Sylvie
Mr. Price
Le temps des lilas Ernest Chausson
Le colibri (1855-1899)
Dans la forêt du charme et de l'enchantement
Ms. Weckworth
from Elijah (1846) Felix Mendelssohn
Draw near, all ye people (1809-1847)
Is not His word like a fire?
Mr. Price
Manhattan Joy Ride Paul Sargent
(1910-1987)
Art is Calling for Me from The Enchantress (1911) Victor Herbert
(1859-1924)
Ms. Weckworth
Margaret Weckworth is a student of Dr. Donald Hartmann
Ethan Price is a student of Dr. Nancy Walker
________
In partial fulfillment of the degree requirements for the
Bachelor of Music in Music Education
Bachelor of Music in Performance
George Frideric Handel:
Sì, tra i ceppi
Anonymous
Sì, tra i ceppi e le ritorte
La mia fè risplenderà.
Nò, nè pur la stessa morte
Il mio foco estinguerà.
Alessandro Scarlatti:
Va per lo mare
Anonymous
Va per lo mare, che la circonda,
Onda per onda la navicella.
Così il mio core nel mar d’amore
Or scende or s’alza
Come lo sbalza la tua procella.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart:
La Finta Giardiniera
Noi donne poverine
Text by Raniero Calzabigi (1714-1795)
Noi donne poverine,
Tapince, sfortunate,
Appena siamo nate,
Che abbiamo da penar.
Disgrazie da bambine,
Strapazzi grandicelle,
E dell'età nel fiore,
O siamo brutte o belle,
Il maledetto amore
Ci viene a tormentar.
Noi donne poverine,
Tapine, sfortunate,
Meglio sarà per noi
Non nascere o morir.
Don Giovanni
Libretto by Lorenzo Da Ponte
Deh, vieni alla finestra
Deh, vieni alla finestra, o mio tesoro.
Deh, vieni a consolar il pianto mio.
Se neghi a me di dar qualche ristoro,
Davanti agli occhi tuoi morir vogl’io.
Tu ch’hai la bocca dolce più che il miele.
Tu che il zucchero porti in mezzo al core
Non esser, gioia mia, con me crudele.
Lasciati almen veder, mio bell’amore.
Yes, even in chains
Yes, even in chains and bonds,
My faith will shine.
No, not even death itself
Will extinguish my flame.
Goes through the sea
Goes through the sea, which encircles it,
Wave through wave the little boat.
Thus is my heart in the sea of love
Now sinks, now rises
As it hurls by your tempest.
The Fake Garden-Girl
We poor women
We poor women,
Wretched, unfortunate
As soon as we are born,
Then we have to suffer.
Misfortunes as children,
Overwork when growing up,
And in the flower of age,
Whether we are ugly or beautiful,
The accursed love
Comes to torment us.
We poor women,
Wretched, unfortunate,
The better for us
Not to be born or die.
Don Giovanni
Pray, come to my window
Pray, come to my window, o my treasure.
Pray, come console my weeping.
If you refuse to grant me some solace,
Before your eyes I want to die.
You whose mouth is sweeter than honey.
You who bear sugar in your heart of hearts.
Do not, my delight, be cruel with me.
At least let yourself be seen, my love.
Là ci darem la mano
Don Giovanni:
Là ci darem la mano,
Là mi dirai di sì.
Vedi, non è lontano;
Partiam, ben mio, da qui.
Zerlina:
Vorrei e non vorrei,
Mi trema un poco il cor.
Felice, è ver, sarei,
Ma può burlarmi ancor.
Don Giovanni:
Vieni, mio bel diletto!
Zerlina:
Mi fa pietà Masetto.
Don Giovanni:
Io cangierò tua sorte.
Zerlina:
Presto non son più forte.
Zerlina, Don Giovanni:
Andiam, andiam, mio bene.
a ristorar le pene
D’un innocente amor.
Franz Schubert:
Lachen und Weinen
Poem by Friendrich Rückert
Lachen und Weinen zu jeglicher Stunde
Ruht bei der Lieb’ auf so mancherlei
Grunde.
Morgens lacht’ ich vor Lust;
Und warum ich nun weine
Bei des Abendes Scheine,
Ist mir selb’ nicht bewusst
Weinen und Lachen zu jeglicher Stunde
Ruht bei der Lieb’ auf so mancherlei
Grunde.
Abends weint’ ich vor Schmerz;
Und warum du erwachen
Kannst am Morgen mit Lachen,
Muss ich dich fragen, O Herz.
Heiss mich nicht reden
Poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Heiss mich nicht reden,
heiss mich schweigen,
denn mein Geheimnis ist mir Pflicht;
Ich möchte dir mein ganzes Innre zeigen,
Allein das Schicksal will es nicht.
There we will hold hands
Don Giovanni:
There we will hold hands,
There you will tell me yes,
Look, it is not far,
Let us leave here my love.
Zerlina:
I would like to and not like to
My heart trembles a little,
I would be happy, it is true,
But he can still deceive me.
Don Giovanni:
Come, my lovely delight!
Zerlina:
I do pity Masetto.
Don Giovanni:
I will change yor fate!
Zerlina:
Soon I am not stronger.
Zerlina, Don Giovanni:
Let’s go, let’s go, my beloved
To restore the pains
Of an innocent love.
Laughing and Crying
Laughing and crying at any hour
Rests in the love for so many reasons.
In the morning I laughed for joy;
And why now I weep
In the glow of the evening,
Is even to me unknown.
Crying and laughing at any hour
Rests in the love for so many reasons.
In the evenings I wept for pain;
And how can you awaken
In the morning with laughing,
Must I ask you, O heart.
Bid me not speak
Bid me not speak,
Bid me keep silent,
For my secret is my duty;
I would like to show you my whole soul
But the fate wants it not.
Zur rechen Zeit
vertreibt der Sonne Lauf Die finstre Nacht,
und sie muss sich erhellen,
Der harte Fels schliesst seinen Busen auf,
Missgönnt der Erde nicht die tief
verborgnen Quellen.
Ein jeder sucht im Arm des Freundes Ruh,
Dort kann die Brust in Klagen sich
ergiessen.
Allein ein Schwur drückt mir die Lippen
zu,
Und nur ein Gott vermag sie
aufzuschliessen.
Jäger, ruhe von der Jagd!
Poem by Sir Walter Scott/Adam Storck
Jäger, ruhe von der Jagd!
Weicher Schlummer soll dich decken,
Träume nicht, wenn Sonn' erwacht,
Dass Jagdhörner dich erwecken.
Schlaf! der Hirsch ruht in der Höhle,
Bei dir sind die Hunde wach;
Schlaf, nicht quäl' es deine Seele,
Dass dein edles Ross erlag.
Jäger, ruhe von der Jagd!
Weicher Schlummer soll dich decken,
Wenn der junge Tag erwacht,
wird kein Jägerhorn dich wecken.
Hugo Wolf:
Verborgenheit
Text by Eduard Mörike (1809-1875)
Lass, o Welt, o lass mich sein!
Locket nicht mit Liebesgaben.
Lasst dies Herz alleine haben
seine Wonne, seine Pein!
Was ich traure, weiss ich nicht,
es ist unbekanntes Wehe.
Immerdar durch Tränen sehe ich
Der Sonne liebes Licht.
Oft bin ich mir kaum bewusst
Und die helle Freude zücket
Durch die Schwere, so mich drücket,
Wonniglich in meiner Brust.
Er ist’s
Text by Eduard Mörike (1809-1875)
Frühling lässt sein blaues Band
Wieder flattern durch die Lüfte;
Süsse, wohlbekannte Düfte
Streifen ahnungsvoll das Land.
At the right time,
the sun’s course drives away the dark night,
and it must brighten itself.
The hard rock opens up its bosom,
Begrudges not to the earth the deep, hidden
springs.
Everyone seeks rest in the arms of a friend
There can the breats in lament pour out
But a vow presses my lips closed,
And only a god can open them.
Hunter, rest from the hunt!
Hunter, rest from the hunt!
Soft slumber shall cover you;
Dream not, when the sun wakes,
that hunting horns awaken you.
Sleep! The stag rests in the cave
With you the hounds are awake;
Sleep, let it not torment your soul
that your noble horse died.
Hunter, rest from the hunt!
Soft slumber shall cover you;
When the young day wakes,
No huntman’s horn will wake you.
Concealment
Let, oh world, oh let me be!
Tempt me not with Love’s gifts.
Let this heart alone have
Its joy, its pain!
What I mourn, I know not,
It is unknown grief.
Continuously through tears I see
The sun’s dear light.
Often I am hardly conscious
And the bright joy flashes
Through the sorrow, that burdens me
Blissfully into my bosom.
It is he
Spring lets its blue ribbon
Again flutter through the breezes;
Sweet, familiar frangrances
Graze full of foreboding across the Land.
Veilchen träumen schon,
Wollen balde kommen.
Horch, von fern ein leiser Harfenton!
Früling, ja du bist’s!
Dich hab ich vernommen, ja du bist’s!
Gabriel Fauré:
Nell
Text by Charles-Marie-René Leconte De
Lisle (1818-1894)
Ta rose de pourpre, à ton clair soleil,
Ô juin étincelle enivrée;
Penche aussi vers moi ta coupe dorée.
Mon coeur à ta rose est pareil.
Sous le mol abri de la feuille ombreuse
Monte un soupir de volupté;
Plus d’un ramier chante au bois écarté,
Ô mon coeur, sa plainte amoureuse.
Que ta perle est douce au ciel enflammé,
Étoile de la nuit pensive!
Mais combien plus douce est la clarté vive
Qui rayonne en mon coeur charmé!
La chantante mer, le long du rivage,
Taira son murmure éternel,
Avant qu’en mon coeur, chère amour,
Ô Nell, ne fleurisse plus ton image!
Lydia
Text by Charles-Marie-René Leconte De
Lisle (1818-1894)
Lydia, sur tes roses joues,
Et sur ton col frais et si blanc,
Roule, étincelant l’or fluide que tu dénoues.
Le jour qui luit est le meilleur :
Oublions l’éternelle tombe.
Laisse tes baiser, tes baisers de colombe,
Chanter sur ta lèvre en fleur.
Un lys cache répand sans cesse
Une odeur divine en ton sein:
Les délices, comme un essaim,
Sortent de toi, jeune déesse!
Je t’aime et meurs, ô mes amours!
Mon âme en baisers m’est ravie.
O Lydia, rends-moi la vie,
Que je puisse mourir toujours!
Sylvie
Text by Paul De Choudens (1850-1925)
Si tu veux savoir ma belle,
Où s’envole à tire d’aile,
Violets dream already,
Wanting to come up soon.
Listen, from afar a soft tone of the harp.
Spring, yes, it is you!
You I have perceived, it is you!
Nell
Your rose of purple, in your bright sun,
Oh June sparkles drunkenly;
Bend toward me also your golden cup.
My heart is parallel to your rose.
Under the soft refuge of the shady leaf
Rises a sigh of voluptuousness;
More than one dove sings in the lonely
woods, O my heart, its loving complaint.
Your pearl is sweet in the inflamed heaven,
Star of the pensive night!
But how much sweeter is the living light
That shines in my charmed heart!
The singing sea, the length of the shore,
Will quiet its eternal murmur,
Before, in my heart, dear love,
O Nell, your image no longer flourishes!
Lydia
Lydia, on your rosy cheeks,
And on your neck cool and so white,
Rolls, sparkling the golden fluid you untie.
The day that shines is the best:
Let us forget the eternal tomb.
Let your kisses, your dove-like kisses,
Sing on your flowering lips.
A lily hidden pours out unceasingly
A divine scent on your breast:
The delights, like a swarm,
Emerge from you, young goddess!
I love you and die, o my love!
My soul is ravished by kisses.
O Lydia, return my life to me,
That I may always die!
Sylvie
If you want to know, my beauty,
Where on the wing flies,
L’oiseau qui chantait sur l’ormeau?
Je te le dirai, ma belle,
Il vole vers qui l’appelle.
Vers celui-là qui l’aimera!
Si tu veux savoir, ma blonde,
Pourquoi sur terre et sur l’onde
La nuit tout s’anime et s’unit?
Je te le dirai, ma blonde,
C’est qu’il est une heure au monde
Où, loin du jour, veille l’amour!
Si tu veux savoir Sylvie,
Pourquoi j’aime à la folie
Tes yeux brillants et langoureux?
Je te le dirai, Sylvie,
C’est que sans toi dans la vie
Tout pour mon coeur n’est que douleur!
Ernest Chausson:
Le temps des lillas
Text by Maurice Bouchor (1855-1929)
Le temps des lilas et le temps des roses
Ne reviendra plus à ce printemps-ci;
Le temps des lilas et le temps des roses
Est passés, le temps des oeillets aussi.
Le vent a changé, les cieux sont moroses,
Et nous n’irons plus courir, et cueillir
Les lilas en fleur et les belles roses;
Le printemps est triste et ne peut fleurir.
Oh! joyeux et doux printemps de l’année,
Qui vins, l’an passé, nous ensoleiller,
Notre fleur d’amour est si bien fanée,
Las que ton baiser ne peut l’éveiller!
Et toi, que fais-tu?
pas de fleurs écloses,
Point de gai soleil ni d’ombrages frais;
Le temps des lilas et le temps des roses
Avec notre amour est mort à jamais.
Le Colibri
Text by Charles-Marie-René Leconte de
Lisle (1818-1894)
Le vert colibri, le roi des collines,
Voyant la rosée et le soleil clair,
Luire dans son nid tissé d'herbes fines,
Comme un frais rayon s'échappe dans l'air.
Il se hâte et vole aux sources voisines,
Où les bambous font le bruit de la mer,
Où l'açoka rouge aux odeurs divines
S'ouvre et porte au coeur un humide éclair.
Vers la fleur dorée, il descend, se pose,
The bird that sang on the elm?
I will tell you, my beautiful one,
It flies toward the one who calls it.
Toward the one who will love it!
If you want to know, my blond one,
Why on the earth and on the wave
Everything comes alive and together at
night?
I will tell you, my blonde one,
It is because there is an hour in the world
Where far from day, love keeps vigil!
If you want to know Sylvie,
Why I madly love your
Shining and languorous eyes?
I will tell you, Sylvie,
It is that without you in life
All my heart is nothing but sorrow!
The time of the lilacs
The time of lilacs and the time of roses
Will return no more to this spring,
The time of lilacs and the time of roses
Has passed, The time of the carnations also.
The wind has changed, skies are gloomy,
And we will go no more to run, and to
gather.
The lilacs in flower and the beautiful roses
The spring is sad and cannot bloom.
O joyous and sweet spring of the year,
That came, last year, to shine on us
Our flower of love is so faded,
Alas that your kiss cannot awaken it!
And you, what do you do?
No blooming flowers,
No happy sun, no cool shade;
The time of the lilacs and the time of the
roses
With our love is dead forever.
The hummingbird
The green hummingbird, the king of the
hills,
Seeing the dew and the bright sun,
Shine in his nest woven of fine grasses
Like a fresh ray escapes in the air.
He hurries and flies to neighboring springs
Where the bamboos make a sound like the
sea
Where the red hibiscus with its divine smell
Et boit tant d'amour dans la coupe rose,
Qu'il meurt, ne sachant s'il l'a pu tarir!
Sur ta lèvre pure, ô ma bien-aimée,
Telle aussi mon âme eut voulu mourir,
Du premier baiser qui l'a parfumée
Dans la forêt du charme et de
l'enchantement
Text by Jean Moreas
Sous vos longues chevelures, petites fées,
Vous chantâtes sur mon sommeil bien
doucement.
Sous vos longues chevelures, petites fées,
Dans la forêt du charme et de
l'enchantement.
Dans la forêt du charme et des merveilleux
rites,
Gnômes compatissants, pendant que je
dormais,
De votre main, honnêtes gnômes, vous
m'offrites, un sceptre d'or,
Hélas! pendant que je dormais!
J'ai su depuis ce temps, que c'est mirage et
leurre,
Les sceptres d'or et les chansons dans la
forêt.
Pourtant comme un enfant crédule, je les
pleure,
Et je voudrais dormir encore dans la forêt.
Qu'importe si je sais que c'est mirage et
leurre.
Felix Mendelssohn:
from Elijah
Draw near, all ye people
Draw near, all ye people, come to me!
Lord God of Abraham, Isaac, and Israel;
This day let it be known that Thou art God,
And I am thy servant!
O shew to all this people that I have done
These things according to Thy word!
O hear me, Lord, and answer me!
Lord God of Abraham, Isaac and Israel;
O hear me and answer me!
And shew this people that Thou art Lord
God;
And let their hearts again be turned!
Opens itself and carries a humid flash to the
heart.
To the gilded flower he descends, poses,
And drinks so much love from the rosy cup
That he dies not knowing is he was able to
dry it up.
On your pure lips, o my beloved
Likewise also my soul had wanted to die.
Of the first kiss which perfumed it.
In the forest of charm and enchantment
Under your dark tresses little fairies,
You sang on my path very sweetly
Under your dark tresses little fairies
In the forest of charm and enchantment
In the forest of charm and wonderful rites
Compassionate gnomes, while I slept,
From your hand, honest gnomes, you
offered me a golden sceptre,
Alas! While I slept!
I have learned since that time it is a mirage
and illusion.
The golden sceptres and songs in the forest,
Yet, like a credulous child, I weep for them.
And I want to sleep in the forest again,
What does it matter if I know it’s a mirage
and illusion
Is not His word like a fire?
Is not His word like a fire?
And like a hammer that breaketh the rock,
That breaketh the rock into pieces?
For God is angry,
Angry with the wicked everyday;
And if the wicked turn not,
The Lord will whet his sword;
And He hath bent his bow,
And made it ready!
Is not His word like a fire?
And like a hammer that breaketh the rock,
That breaketh the rock into pieces?
Paul Sargent:
Manhattan Joy Ride
Text by Lousie Richardson Dodd
The stars are out, the night it fine,
We sit within the traffic line.
The lights have changed, the signals set,
Now off we go, No, no! not yet.
The brakes are on, we move and inch,
We stop again,
The cop will pinch the next offender
who would dare to speed upon this
thoroughfare.
I look at you,
You look ahead,
A thousand things you might have said
to make this drive a pure delight,
But you must watch the traffic light.
Chugging motors purr and whine,
Waiting in the traffic line.
Grinding gears, escaping gas,
Must we let that fellow pass?
Open roads and country air,
Breeze blowing thru your hair,
Hot dog stands and painted bills
Cluttering the fields and hills.
A mile or two, then home again,
The traffic jam, the crowd, the strain.
The wistful heart, unsatisfied.
Goodnight, my dear,
A lovely ride!
Victor Herbert:
Art Is Calling for Me
Text by Harry B. Smith
Mamma is a queen and papa is a king;
So I am a Princess and I know it;
But court etiquette is a dull and dreary
thing,
I just hate it all, and I show it.
To sing on the stage that’s the one life for
me,
My figure’s just like Tetrazzini;
I know I’d win fame if I sang in “Boheme;”
That op’ra by Signor Puccini.
I’ve roulades and the trills
That would send the cold chills
Down the backs of all hearers of my vocal
frills.
I long to be a prima donna, donna, donna,
I long to shine upon the stage,
I have the embonpoint
to become a queen of song;
And my figure would look as a page.
I want to be a screechy peachy cantatrice,
Like other plump girls that I see;
I hate society,
I hate propriety,
Art is calling for me.
I'm in the elite, and men sigh at my feet;
Still I do not fancy my position;
I have not much use for the men that I meet,
I quite burn with lyric ambition.
Those tenors so sweet,
If they made love to me,
I'd be a success, that I do know;
And Melba I’d oust if I once sang in
“Faust,”
That op’ra so charming by Gounod.
Girls would be on the brink
Of hysterics, I think,
Even strong men would have to go out for a
drink.
I long to be a prima donna, donna, donna,
I long to shine upon the stage,
With my avoirdupois
And my tra la la la la,
I would be the chief sensation of the age.
I long to hear them shouting:
"Viva" to the diva,
Oh, very lovely that must be;
That's what I'm dying for,
That's what I'm sighing for,
Art is calling for me.
