Les Sirènes
by Charles Jean Grandmougin (1850-1930)
Nous sommes la beauté qui charme les plus forts,
Les fleurs tremblantes de l'écume
Et de la brume,
Nos baisers fugitifs sont le rêve des morts!
Parmi nos chevelures blondes
L'eau miroite en larmes d'argent,
Nos regards à l'éclat changeant
Sont verts et bleus comme les ondes !
Avec un bruit pareil aux délicats frissons
Des moissons
Nous voltigeons sans avoir d'ailes ;
Nous cherchons de tendres vainqueurs,
Nous sommes les sœurs immortelles
Offertes aux désirs de vos terrestres cœurs!
We are the beauty that charms the strongest men,
The trembling flowers of foam
And of mist,
Our fleeting kisses are the dream of the dead!
Among our blonde tresses
The water glimmers in silver tears.
Our changing, sparkling glances
Are green and blue like the waves.
With a sound like the delicate shivers
Of harvest wheat
We flutter about without wings.
We seek tender conquerors.
We are the immortal sisters
Offered to the desires of your earthly hearts.
Composer Lili Boulanger (1893–1918) was born into an extraordinarily musical family in Paris, and her gifts were recognized almost immediately. By age two she could sing melodies accurately, and she learned to read music before she learned the alphabet. Family friend and renowned composer Gabriel Fauré noted her absolute pitch, and by age ten she was auditing classes at the Paris Conservatoire alongside her older sister, the famed pedagogue Nadia Boulanger. In addition to singing, Lili studied piano, violin, cello, and harp.
Boulanger’s life was marked by chronic illness. Beginning with severe pneumonia in early childhood, she battled poor health throughout her brief life. Even so, she pursued composition with extraordinary determination. At age eighteen she entered the prestigious Prix de Rome competition but collapsed from illness during the performance of her cantata. Undeterred, she returned the following year and became the first woman ever to win the prize. Her artistic accomplishments and emotional maturity are all the more astonishing considering that she died at only twenty-four years old.
Les Sirènes was first performed at one of her mother’s musical salons and was received so enthusiastically that the audience demanded an encore.
The text of Les sirènes was written by French poet and librettist Charles Grandmougin (1850–1930). Drawing on the sirens of Greek mythology described in Homer’s epics, the work portrays the hypnotic call that lures sailors to destruction. Listen for the persistent F-sharp pedal tone in the piano, paired with shimmering octave C-sharps above it, which create an atmosphere of eerie fascination and musical hypnosis.
The Sea-Fairies
by Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)
Slow sail’d the weary mariners and saw,
Betwixt the green brink and the running foam,
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest
To little harps of gold; and while they mused,
Whispering to each other half in fear,
Shrill music reach’d them on the middle sea.
Whither away, whither away, whither away? fly no more.
Whither away, from the high green field, and the happy blossoming shore?
Day and night to the billow the fountain calls;
Down shower the gambolling waterfalls
From wandering over the lea;
Out of the live-green heart of the dells
They freshen the silvery-crimson shells,
And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells
High over the full-toned sea.
O, hither, come hither and furl your sails,
Come hither to me and to me;
Hither, come hither and frolic and play;
Here it is only the mew that wails;
We will sing to you all the day.
Mariner, mariner, furl your sails,
For here are the blissful downs and dales,
And merrily, merrily carol the gales,
And the spangle dances in bight and bay,
And the rainbow forms and flies on the land
Over the islands free;
And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand;
Hither, come hither and see;
And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave,
And sweet is the color of cove and cave,
And sweet shall your welcome be.
O, hither, come hither, and be our lords,
For merry brides are we.
We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words;
O, listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten
With pleasure and love and jubilee.
O, listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten
When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords
Runs up the ridged sea.
Who can light on as happy a shore
All the world o’er, all the world o’er?
Whither away? listen and stay; mariner, mariner, fly no more.
Amy Marcy Beach née Amy Marcy Cheney (1867-1944) was the American born child prodigy who began composing melodies on the piano at the age of four. She began taking piano lessons with her mother, Clara at the age of six. She had an illustrious career as a child and teenager, and was known for her ability to transpose the fugues of Bach's The Well-Tempered Clavier into any key from memory and playing a Beethoven piano sonata after hearing it only once.
At the age of eighteen, Amy married a surgeon and dedicated amateur musician, Henry H.A. Beach. Despite her young age she referred to her relationship as a happy one. Due to societal and personal obligations, Amy did not perform as frequently. Her new husband, twenty years her senior, highly encouraged her to pursue composition. She created a rigorous self-study course in music theory and composition that included writing out entire symphonic in open score from memory! After the death of her husband in 1911, she spent the following three years in Europe where her performances and compositions were widely acclaimed.
A champion to female musicians, she was not exempt from the anti-woman sentiments of her day. Her work is still underrepresented in the classical canon despite the success of her compositions including her Piano Concerto (1900), the Gaelic Symphony (1894) and the Mass in E-flat (1890) amongst others.
Barnlige Sanger
selections from a set of Norwegian Folksongs by Edvard Grieg
I. Havet
J. Nordahl Rolfsen
Skjær og ø!
Hav og sjø
stadig paa døren trommer;
lodsen ligger med flag paa top
udenfor døren og lukker op
for alle skibe, som kommer.
Skagerak --
mange tak!
du kan vaske om kindet;
Ishav, Nordsjø, Atlanterhav!
Sne og skodde og grund og grav
er hos alle at finde.
Ud fra led,
hus og fred
seiler de norske gutter;
pløier sjøen og passer sit,
enten havet er blaat eller hvidt;
seiler, til livet slutter.
I. The Ocean
Rocks and islands!
Sea and waves
Drum ever on the door;
The pilot is there with his flag raised
Outside the door and he unlocks it
For all the visiting ships.
Skagerak,
Many thanks!
You can wash your cheeks;
Arctic Ocean, North Sea, Atlantic!
Snow and fog and shoals and depths
Can be found in all of them.
Out from the channel
From home and from peace
They sail, Norwegian lads
Ploughing the sea and keeping watch
Whether the sea be blue or white;
Sailing until the end.
IIII. Lokk
Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
Kom, bukken til gutten,
kom, kalven til mor,
kom, mjauende katten
i snehvide skor,
kom, andunger gule,
kom frem ifra skjulet,
kom, kyllinger små
som neppe kan gå,
kom, duerne mine
med fjærene fine!
Se græsset er vådt;
men solen gjør godt,
og tidlig, tidlig
er det på sommer'n --
men rop på høsten, så kommer'n!
III. The Call
Come goat to the lad,
Come calf to mother,
Come meowing cat
With snow-white shoes,
Come yellow ducklings,
Come out of the shed,
Come little chicks
That can scarcely walk,
Come my doves
With your pretty feathers!
See, the grass is wet;
But the sun is warm
And it’s early, so early
In the summer
But call for autumn and it’ll come.
IV. Fiskervise
Petter Dass
Det hænder vel ofte,
du kaster fra tofte
dit snøre for bord,
men har ikke lykke
til flyndren at rykke
med angel og snor.
Thi flyndren som laksen,
hun bider ei straksen,
er heller lidt sen.
Jeg kjender de drenge
som siddet har længe,
fik aldrig et ben.
Naar snøret er runden
og sænket til bunden,
staar lykken hos Gud.
Han giver ei skarnet;
kast derfor kun garnet
i Jesu navn ud!
Gud signe din angel,
at ei den har mangel
paa torsk eller skrei!
Og gid han maa føre
til dig og dit snøre
den levrede sei!
IV. Fisherman’s Song
It is often the case
That from your bench you cast
Your line overboard
But do not have the joy
Of drawing up a flounder
On your hook and line.
For flounder and salmon
Do not bite straight away,
Preferring to wait.
I know lads
Who have sat for ages
And caught nothing at all.
When the line is played out
And has sunk to the bottom
Success is in God’s hands.
He does not give just anything;
So cast out your line
In Jesus’ name!
God bless your hook
That it may not lack
Cod in shoals!
And may he lead
To you and your line
The lively pollock.
Silent Shore
by Thea Piltzecker
Beneath my hands you move,
The sleekest seal through water.
Twisting, rolling, shadowed breaths,
Leaving eddies in your wake.
The darkly rippling harbor
Hides your tempests from me.
Past and future stormclouds
Gather and vanish unseen.
Edges at the surface
Are all that I can grasp.
Your flanks, a profile outlined,
The pulsing current we share.
Each day I long to ask you more:
Are your eyes closed in the dark?
Do we dream before living?
Where are you going, little one?
Soon you will be leaving me.
Soon we’ll meet for the first time.
I hold my watch in miles walked,
Steps along the silent shore.
Who Has Seen The Wind?
by Christina Rosetti (1830-1894)
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.
The Winds, composed by Laura Jēkabsone (*1985) weaves together a Latvian Folksong with the well-known text of Who Has Seen the Wind by Christina Rosetti. Below is a note from the composer.
The piece speaks about the times we live in through Latvian folk songs and the words of poet Christina Rosetti. The wind in this work symbolizes both change and rapid events and significant surges of information that often blow like-minded and close people each to their own shore. In a Latvian folk song, a sister sings of her brother going to sea and prays to the mother of the wind to protect him. After a storm, she finds a boat, finds an oar, but does not find her brother. Christina Rossetti's description of the wind symbolizes the idea that even things we do not see affect us, and only affect us when we are already deep inside them.
In today's world, this storm is no longer to be taken directly and literally, but figuratively in events of different scales.
I hope this windy musical journey will make us think about the wind in our lives.
Ode: Intimations of Immortality
from Recollections of Early Childhood
by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day.
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
The Rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the Rose,
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare,
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
Jabberwocky
by Lewis Carroll (1832-1898)
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
’One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.