November Program | Still. Here

Still. Here.

Music of Love & Plague

SOUTH FLORIDA’S GRAMMY® NOMINATED VOCAL ENSEMBLE

Still. Here. | 1

Still. Here.

Music of Love & Plague

program

Anonymous

(c. 1400)

Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson

(1875 – 1935)

William Cornysh

(1465 – 1523)

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

(1806 –1861)

Henry VIII of England

(1491 – 1547)

By General Su Wu, transl. Arthur Waley Pierre Attaingnant

(c. 100 BC) (c. 1494 – 1552)

Alfred de Musset, transl. Emma Lazarus

(1810 – 1857)

Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina

(1525 – 1594)

Sir Thomas Wyatt

(1503 – 1542)

Palestrina George Herbert

(1593 – 1633)

Claudio Monteverdi

(1567 – 1643)

Paul Laurence Dunbar

(1872 – 1906)

Anonymous William Shakespeare

(1564 – 1616)

John Dowland

(1563 – 1626)

Alexander Pushkin

(1799 – 1837)

Anon., Shirburn Ballads

(c. 1590)

(c. 1585)

Emily Dickinson

(1830 – 1886)

Thomas Campion

(1567 – 1620)

artist roster SOPRANO Sara Guttenberg (IL) Sarah Moyer (MA) Molly Quinn (NC & UK) Nola Richardson (NY) ALTO Luthien Brackett (UK) Doug Dodson (MA) Andrew Rader (IN) TENOR Brad Diamond (AL) Patrick Muehleise (NY) Steven Soph (PA) BASS James K. Bass (CA) Kyle Ferrill (KY) John Buffett (CA) POETRY READERS Reginald Mobley (MA) Margot Rood (VA) INSTRUMENTALISTS Lute: John Lenti (WA) Keyboards: Justin Blackwell (MA) Percussion: Rhett Del Campo (FL) PRODUCTION CREDITS Audio Engineer: Jamie Tagg (IN) Video Production: Enrico Lagasca (NY) Head of Production: Alexis Aimé (FL) Producer/Director: Southern Land Films (FL) Executive Producer: Patrick Dupré Quigley (DC) A Seraphic Fire Media Production (SFM ™)

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Text &Translations Stella caeli extirpavit, Anonymous (c.1400) Stella caeli extirpavit Quae lactavit Dominum Mortis pestem quam plantavit Primus parens hominum.

Heaven’s Star, Nurturer of the Prime god, Uproot this death plague Planted by our first parents.

Ipsa stella nunc dignetur Sidera compescere, Quorum bella plebem caedunt Dirae mortis ulcere.

Star goddess, deign to Restrain the fates, Whose wars give us Furious death ulcers.

O gloriosa stella maris A peste succurre nobis;

O, glorious navigational star, Save us from the plague.

Audi nos, domina, nam filius tuus Nihil negans te honorat.

Salva nos, Jesu, pro quibus Virgo Mater te orat!

Hear us, Mother goddess, whose son honors her by denying her nothing!

Save us, Prime God! The Mother goddess is speaking to you on our behalf!

To Madame Curie, Alice Moore Dunbar-Nelson (1875–1935) Oft have I thrilled at deeds of high emprise, And yearned to venture into realms unknown, Thrice blessed she, I deemed, whom God had shown How to achieve great deeds in woman’s guise.

Yet what discov’ry by expectant eyes Of foreign shores, could vision half the throne Full gained by her, whose power fully grown Exceeds the conquerors of th’ uncharted skies?

So would I be this woman whom the world Avows its benefactor; nobler far, Than Sybil, Joan, Sappho, or Egypt’s queen.

In the alembic forged her shafts and hurled At pain, diseases, waging a humane war; Greater than this achievement, none, I ween.

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Text & Translations Ah, Robin, gentle Robin, William Cornysh (1465 – 1523) Ah, Robin, gentle, Robin, Tell me how thy leman doth and thou shalt know of mine.

My lady is unkind I wis, Alack why is she so?

She lov’th another better than me, and yet she will say no.

I cannot think such doubleness for I find women true, In faith my lady lov’th me well she will change for no new.

Ah, Robin, gentle, Robin, Tell me how thy leman doth and thou shalt know of mine.

The Lady's Yes, Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806 – 1861) Call me false, or call me free —Vow, whatever light may shine, No man on your face shall see Any grief for change on mine.

Learn to win a lady's faith Nobly, as the thing is high; Bravely, as for life and death —With a loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards, Point her to the starry skies, Guard her, by your truthful words, Pure from courtship's flatteries.

By your truth she shall be true —Ever true, as wives of yore —And her Yes, once said to you, SHALL be Yes for evermore.

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Text & Translations Pastime with good company, Henry VIII of England (1491 – 1547) Pastime with good company I love, and shall until I die.

Gruch who lust but none deny, So God be pleas'd thus live will I. For my pastance, hunt, sing, and dance, my heart is set All goodly sport, for my comfort, who shall me let?

Youth must have some dalliance, of good or ill some pastance.

Company methinks then best, all thoughts and fancies to digest.

For idleness, is chief mistress of vices all Then who can say but mirth and play is best of all.

Company with honesty, Is virtue, vices to flee.

Company is good and ill, but every man hath his free will.

The best ensue, the worst eschew, my mind shall be Virtue to use, vice to refuse, thus shall I use me.

To His Wife, By General Su Wu, transl. Arthur Waley (c. 100 BC) I suddenly remember the distance that I must travel; I spring from bed and look out to see the time.

The stars and planets are all grown dim in the sky; Long, long is the road; I cannot stay.

I hold your hand with only a deep sigh; Afterwards, tears — in the days when we are parted.

With all your might enjoy the spring flowers, But do not forget the time of our love and pride.

Know that if I live, I will come back again, And if I die, we will go on thinking of each other.

The May Night, Alfred de Musset (1810 – 1857) transl. Emma Lazarus MUSE. Give me a kiss, my poet, take thy lyre; The buds are bursting on the wild sweet-briar.

To-night the Spring is born—the breeze takes fire.

Expectant of the dawn behold the thrush Perched on the fresh branch of the first green bush; Give me a kiss, my poet, take thy lyre.

POET. How black it looks within the vale!

I thought a muffled form did sail Above the tree-tops, through the air.

It seemed from yonder field to pass, Its foot just grazed the tender grass; A vision strange and fair it was.

It melts // and is no longer there.

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Text & Translations Super flumina babylonis, Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina (1525 – 1594) Super flumina Babylonis illic sedimus et flevimus, cum recordaremur Sion.

In salicibus in medio ejus suspendimus organa nostra.

By Babylon’s rivers, we sat and wept, remembering our homeland.

We silenced our instruments and hung them from willow trees.

Whoso List to Hunt, I Know where is an Hind, Sir Thomas Wyatt, (1503 – 1542) Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind, But as for me, hélas, I may no more.

The vain travail hath wearied me so sore, I am of them that farthest cometh behind.

Yet may I by no means my wearied mind Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore Fainting I follow.

I leave off therefore, Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.

Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt, As well as I may spend his time in vain.

And graven with diamonds in letters plain There is written, her fair neck round about: “Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am, And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.”

Sicut cervus, Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina Sicut cervus desiderat ad fontes aquarum, ita desiderat anima mea ad te, Deus.

Like the deer longs for fonts of water, So my soul longs for you.

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Text & Translations Love (III), George Herbert (1593 – 1633) Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back, Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning If I lacked anything.

"A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here": Love said, "You shall be he."

"I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear, I cannot look on thee."

Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, "Who made the eyes but I?" "Truth, Lord; but I have marred them; let my shame Go where it doth deserve."

"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"

"My dear, then I will serve."

"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."

So I did sit and eat.

Lamento della Ninfa, Claudio Monteverdi (1567 – 1643) I. Non havea Febo ancora recato al mondo il dì ch'una donzella fuora del proprio albergo uscì.

Not had Phoebus yet gone to light the world that day when a maiden goes out Of her own dwelling.

Sul pallidetto volto scorgease il suo dolor, spesso gli venia sciolto un gran sospir dal cor.

On the pale face Was plain to see her sorrow, Often dissolved with a great sigh from the heart.

Sì calpestando fiori, errava hor qua, hor là, i suoi perduti amori così piangendo va:

Yes trampling flowers, Wandering here, and there, his lost love Cries thusly:

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Text & Translations Lamento della Ninfa (continued) II. "Amor," dicea, il ciel mirando il piè fermò "dove, dov'è la fé che 'l traditor giurò?

"Love," she said to the sky With her foot, she stomped "Where, O Where is the faithfulness that the traitor swore to give me?

Fa che ritorni il mio amor com'ei pur fu, o tu m'ancidi, ch'io non mi tormenti più."

Give him back to me Even as he loved before, Or kill me, So I can end this torment.”

Miserella, ah più no, tanto gel soffrir non può.

Miserable girl, oh, cry no more, so much pain I can no longer suffer.

"Non vo' più ch'ei sospiri se non lontan da me, no, no, che i suoi martiri più non dirammi, affé!

"I no longer wish to hear him sigh unless he is far from me, No, that is for martyrs Tell me no more, affé!

Perché di lui mi struggo tutt'orgoglioso sta, che sì, che sì se 'l fuggo ancor mi pregherà?

Because I still pine for him, He remains proud, But if I flee, will he beg for me?

Se ciglio ha più sereno colei che 'l mio non è, già non rinchiude in seno Amor si bella fé.

She may have eyes, More fair and serene than mine, But she does not have in her heart A love more beautiful or faithful.

Né mai si dolci baci da quella bocca havrai, né più soavi; ah, taci, taci, che troppo il sai."

Nor will he receive sweeter kisses from that her fair mouth, Than he could from mine; Ah, hush, hush, he knows too much."

III. Sì tra sdegnosi pianti spargea le voci al ciel; così ne' cori amanti mesce Amor fiamma e gel.

Yet, with scornful cries She casts her anguish to the sky; Because in the heart of every lover, Lives a mix of love’s fire and ice.

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Text & Translations Thou Art My Lute, Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906) Thou art my lute, by thee I sing,— My being is attuned to thee.

Thou settest all my words a-wing, And meltest me to melody.

Thou art my life, by thee I live, From thee proceed the joys I know; Sweetheart, thy hand has power to give The meed of love—the cup of woe.

Thou art my love, by thee I lead My soul the paths of light along, From vale to vale, from mead to mead, And home it in the hills of song.

My song, my soul, my life, my all, Why need I pray or make my plea, Since my petition cannot fall; For I’m already one with thee!

Sonnet LXV, William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616) Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea But sad mortality o’er-sways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower?

O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?

O fearful meditation! where, alack, Shall time’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid?

Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?

Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?

O, none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

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Come again!

Sweet love doth now invite Thy graces that refrain To do me due delight, To see, to hear, to touch, to kiss, to die, With thee again in sweetest sympathy.

Come again!

That I may cease to mourn Through thy unkind disdain; For now left and forlorn I sit, I sigh, I weep, I faint, I die In deadly pain and endless misery.

Gentle Love, Draw forth thy wounding dart, Thou canst not pierce her heart; For I, that do approve By sighs and tears more hot than are thy shafts Did tempt while she for triumph laughs

Winter's Night, Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837) Our wretched little cottage Is gloomy and dark.

Why do you sit all silent Hugging the window, old gran?

Has the howling of the storm Wearied you, at last, dear friend?

Or are you dozing fitfully Under the spinning wheel's humming?

The storm wind covers the sky Whirling the fleecy snow drifts Now it howls like a wolf, Now it is crying, like a lost child.

Let us drink, dearest friend To my poor wasted youth.

Let us drink from grief - Where's the glass?

Our hearts at least will be lightened.

The Poore People’s Complaynt, Anon., Shirburn Ballads (c. 1585) We go to brave buildings of fair brick and stone, Where men of great calling live Lordly alone.

We ask it for God's sake, but none will come near us.

We crave it for Christ's sake, yet no man will hear us.

Lord help us, lord help us, Lord help us with speed.

Come now, lord, and help thy poor people that need.

Thou gav'st us a helper, while here he did live, Whose hands was not empty his almes for to give; But, now, lord, we lack him; he is clothed in clay; And woe be to the death that took him away.

Our good Earl of Bedford, that man it is he, Which caus-ed this weeping and wayling to be.

And blame us not, brethren, we bear him in mind: Such good me as he was, few we can find.

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Text & Translations The Poore People’s Complaynt (continued) Now charity is choaked with picking bare bones; And poverty compelled to lie on cold stones; And good men that give are soon dead and rotten, But god, that doth give, is soonest forgotten.

What man is he living that now this song hears And hath his eyes open, can keep them from tears To think how few good me there dwell in this land And how soon they happen to come to death's hand?

Lord help us, lord help us, Lord help us with speed.

Come now, lord, and help thy poor people that need.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) “Hope” is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul And sings the tune without the words And never stops - at all And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard And sore must be the storm That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm I’ve heard it in the chillest land And on the strangest Sea Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me.

Never Weather Beaten Sail, Thomas Campion (1567 – 1620) Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore.

Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more, Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast: O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest.

Ever blooming are the joys of Heaven's high Paradise.

Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes: Glory there the sun outshines whose beams the blessed only see: O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to thee!

Sources: http://publish.illinois.edu/cmacklin/files/2015/08/Macklin-SCE-in-EMH-PUBLISHED.pdf

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SOUTH FLORIDA’S GRAMMY® NOMINATED VOCAL ENSEMBLE

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