Tag: John Keats

Serenata – XI

Pubblicato da Claudio Capriolo2 commenti

Benjamin Britten (22 novembre 1913 - 1976): Serenade per tenore, corno e archi op. 31 (1943). Peter Pears, tenore; Dennis Brain, corno; BBC Symphony Orchestra, direttore John Hollingsworth.

  1. Prologue (assolo del corno)
  2. Pastoral [1:19]

    testo di Charles Cotton (1630-1687): quattro strofe da The Evening Quatrains

    The day’s grown old; the fainting sun
    Has but a little way to run,
    And yet his steeds, with all his skill,
    Scarce lug the chariot down the hill.

    The shadows now so long do grow,
    That brambles like tall cedars show;
    Mole hills seem mountains, and the ant
    Appears a monstrous elephant.

    A very little, little flock
    Shades thrice the ground that it would stock;
    Whilst the small stripling following them
    Appears a mighty Polypheme.

    And now on benches all are sat,
    In the cool air to sit and chat,
    Till Phoebus, dipping in the west,
    Shall lead the world the way to rest.

  3. Nocturne [5:16]

    testo di Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892): Blow, bugle, blow

    The splendour falls on castle walls
    And snowy summits old in story:
    The long light shakes across the lakes,
    And the wild cataract leaps in glory:
      Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
      Bugle blow; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

    O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
    And thinner, clearer, farther going!
    O sweet and far from cliff and scar
    The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
      Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
      Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

    O love, they die in yon rich sky,
    They faint on hill or field or river:
    Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
    And grow for ever and for ever.
      Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
      And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

  4. Elegy [8:50]

    testo di William Blake (1757-1827): The Sick Rose)

    O Rose, thou art sick!
    The invisible worm,
    That flies in the night
    In the howling storm,
    Has found out thy bed
    Of crimson joy:
    And his dark, secret love
    Does thy life destroy.

  5. Dirge [13:43]

    testo di autore anonimo del secolo XV, noto come Lyke-Wake Dirge

    This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
    Every nighte and alle,
    Fire and fleet and candle‑lighte,
    And Christe receive thy saule.

    When thou from hence away art past,
    Every nighte and alle,
    To Whinny‑muir thou com’st at last;
    And Christe receive thy saule.

    If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
    Every nighte and alle,
    Sit thee down and put them on;
    And Christe receive thy saule.

    If hosen and shoon thou ne’er gav’st nane
    Every nighte and alle,
    The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane;
    And Christe receive thy saule.

    From Whinny‑muir when thou may’st pass,
    Every nighte and alle,
    To Brig o’ Dread thou com’st at last;
    And Christe receive thy saule.

    From Brig o’ Dread when thou may’st pass,
    Every nighte and alle,
    To Purgatory fire thou com’st at last;
    And Christe receive thy saule.

    If ever thou gavest meat or drink,
    Every nighte and alle,
    The fire sall never make thee shrink;
    And Christe receive thy saule.

    If meat or drink thou ne’er gav’st nane,
    Every nighte and alle,
    The fire will burn thee to the bare bane;
    And Christe receive thy saule.

    This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
    Every nighte and alle,
    Fire and fleet and candle‑lighte,
    And Christe receive thy saule.

  6. Hymn [17:42]

    testo di Ben Jonson (1572-1637): Hymn to Diana (dalla commedia satirica Cynthia’s Revels, or The Fountain of Self-Love, 1600)

    Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
    Now the sun is laid to sleep,
    Seated in thy silver chair,
    State in wonted manner keep:
    Hesperus entreats thy light,
    Goddess excellently bright.

    Earth, let not thy envious shade
    Dare itself to interpose;
    Cynthia’s shining orb was made
    Heav’n to clear when day did close:
    Bless us then with wishèd sight,
    Goddess excellently bright.

    Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
    And thy crystal shining quiver;
    Give unto the flying hart
    Space to breathe, how short so-ever:
    Thou that mak’st a day of night,
    Goddess excellently bright.

  7. Sonnet [19:42]

    testo di John Keats (1795-1821): Sonnet To Sleep

    O soft embalmer of the still midnight!
    Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
    Our gloom-pleas’d eyes, embower’d from the light,
        Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;
    O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
        In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes.
    Or wait the Amen, ere thy poppy throws
        Around my bed its lulling charities;
        Then save me, or the passed day will shine
    Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;
        Save me from curious conscience, that still hoards
    Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
        Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
    And seal the hushed casket of my soul.

  8. Epilogue (replica del Prologue eseguita dietro le quinte)

 

Of Shadows Numberless

Pubblicato da Claudio Capriolo6 commenti

Miriam Gideon (1906 - 18 giugno1996): Of Shadows Numberless, suite per pianoforte (1966) ispirata dall’Ode to a Nightingale di John Keats. Paula Ennis-Dwyer.

  1. Allegretto: « …magic casements opening on seas of perilous foam »
  2. Animato: « …the blushful Hippocrene » [1:50]
  3. Ritornelle: « …magic casements opening » [3:17]
  4. Presto: « …the murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves » [3:55]
  5. Tranquillamente: « …white hawthorne and the pastoral eglantine » [5:57]
  6. Moderato: « …Adieu! Thy plaintive anthem fades past the near meadows » [9:27]

John Keats

Ode to a Nightingale

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness,—
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

Oh for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
Oh for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stainèd mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets cover’d up in leaves;
And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the selfsame song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that ofttimes hath
Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self.
Adieu! the Fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hillside; and now ‘tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades.
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?

La Belle Dame sans Merci – I

Pubblicato da Claudio Capriolo16 commenti

Sir Alexander Mackenzie (1847 - 28 aprile 1935): La Belle Dame sans Merci, ballata sinfonica op. 29 (1883) ispirata dall’omonima ballata di John Keats. Orchestra filarmonica di Malta, dir. Michael Laus.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
  Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
  And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
  So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
  And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
  With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
  Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
  Full beautiful — a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
  And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
  And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
  And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
  And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
  A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
  And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said —
  ‘I love thee true’.

She took me to her Elfin grot,
  And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
  With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,
  And there I dreamed — Ah! woe betide! —
The latest dream I ever dreamt
  On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
  Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried — ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
  Thee hath in thrall!’

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
  With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
  On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
  Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
  And no birds sing.