Lieder
– index:
1. Emblems
2. Harvest Home
3. Heart not so heavy as mine
4. Let's be gay
5. Musicians wrestle everywhere
6. Tarantella
7. The Defense of Corinth
8. The Harmony of Morning
9. To Music
1.
"Emblems"
Text by Allen Tate (1899-1979)
Music by Elliott Carter
1.
Maryland Virginia Caroline
Clay valleys rocky hills old fields of pine unspeakable,
Virginia Caroline pent images in sleep unspeakable,
And deep out of that source of time my farthest blood
Runs strangely to this day unkempt the fathers waste in solitude,
Unkempt the fathers waste in solitude under hills of clay
Far from their woe fled to its thither side to a river in an alien house
I will stay yet find their breath to be all that my stars betide,
There sometime to abide, took wife and child with me.
Maryland Virginia.
2.
When it's all over and the blood runs out,
Do not bury this man by the far river (where never stood his fathers)
When it is all over and the blood runs out,
Do not bury this man by the far river flowing,
Flowing to the west.
But take him east where life began,
O my brothers, my brothers.
There is rest in the depths of an eastward river that I can understand;
Only do not think the truth we hold I hold slighter
For this lonely reservation of the heart,
Men cannot live forever, but they must die forever.
So take this body, at sunset, to the great stream whose pulses start in the blue hills,
And let these ashes drift from the long bridge, that deep and populous grave,
Whose heart with memory shakes.
By the great river the forefathers to beguile them, being inconceivably young,
Carved out deep hollows of memory on a river isle
A shout in the hollows where the forefathers lay down,
Shout in the hollows where the forefathers without beards
Their eyes bright and long lay down at sunset,
Lay down at sunset by the green river in the tall willows amid bird son.
3.
By the great river the forefathers to beguile them, being inconceivably young,
Carved out deep hollows of memory on a river isle
And the long sleep by the cool river they've slept full and long,
Till now the air waits twilit for their echo.
Waits twilit for their echo.
The burning shiver of August strikes like a hawk the crouching hare.
2.
"Harvest Home"
Text by Robert Herrick (1591-1674)
Music by Elliott Carter
Come Sons of Summer, by whose toile,
We are the Lords of Wine and Oile:
By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands.
Crown'd with the ears of corne, now come,
And, to the Pipe, sing Harvest home.
[Come forth, my Lord, and see the Cart
Drest up with all the Country Art.]
See, here a Maukin, there it is a sheeet,
As spotless pure, as it is sweet:
The Horses, Mares and frisking Fillies,
(Clad, all, in Linnen, white as Lillies.)
The Harvest Swaines, and Wenches bound
For joy, to see the Hock-cart crown'd.
About the Cart, heare, how the Rout
Of Rurall Younglings raise the shout;
Pressing before, some coming after,
Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
Some blesse the Cart; some kisse the sheaves;
Some prank them up with Oaken leaves:
[some crosse the Fill-Horse;] Some with great
Devotion, stroak the home-borne wheat:
While other Rusticks, lesse attent
To prayers, than to Merryment,
Run after with their breeches rent.
Well, on, brave boyes, to your [Lords] Hearth,
Glitt'ring with fire; where, for your mirth,
Ye shall see first the large and cheefe
Foundation of your Feast, Fat Beefe:
With Upper Stories, Mutton, Veale
And Bacon, (which makes full the meale).
[With sev'rall dishes standing by,
As here a Custard, there a Pie
As here all tempting Frumentie.
And for to make the merry cheere,
If smirking Wine be wanting here,
There's that, which drowns all care, stout beere;
Which freely drink to your Lord's health.
Then to the Plough, (the common-wealth)
Next to your Flailes, your Fanes, your Fatts;]
Then to Maids with Wheaten Hats;
To the rough Sickle, and crookt Sythe.
Drink frollick boyes, till all be blythe.
Feed, and grow fat; and as ye eat,
Be mindful, that the lab'ring Neat
(As you) may have their fill of meat.
And know, besided, ye must revoke
The patient Oxe unto the Yoke.
And all goe back unto the Plough
And Harrow, (though the'r hang'd up now.)
[And, you must know, your Lords word's true.
Feed him ye must, whose food fills you.]
And that this pleasure is like raine,
Not sent ye for to drowne your paine,
But for to make it spring againe.
3. "Heart
not so heavy as mine"
Text by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
Music by Elliott Carter
Heart, wending late home, as it passed my window whistled itself a tune,
Not so heavy as mine, whistled itself a tune,
Yet to my ear an anodyne so sweet,
It was as if a bobolink, carolled and mused and carolled, then bubbled slowly away.
It was as if, as if a chirping brook up on a toilsome way,
Up on a toilsome way was set bleeding feet to minuets, to minuets,
Set bleeding feet to minuets without the knowing, without the knowing why.
Heart not so heavy, tomorrow, night will come again, weary perhaps and sore.
Ah, bugle, bugle, by my window, I pray you stroll, stroll once more!
4. "Let's
be gay"
Text by John Gay (1685-1732)
Music by Elliott Carter
Youth's the season made for joys;
Love is then our duty.
She alone who that employs
Well deserves her beauty.
Let's be gay while we may
Drink and sport yet today;
Let's be gay while we may,
Beauty's a flow'r despis'd in decay.
Let us drink and sport today;
Ours is not tomorrow.
Love with youth flies swift away,
Age is naught but sorrow.
Let's be gay, dance and sing;
Let's be gay, time's on the wing,
Dance and sing, time's on the wing,
Life never knows the return of spring.
5.
"Musicians wrestle everywhere"
Text by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
Music by Elliott Carter
Musicians wrestle everywhere -
All day among the crowded air
I hear the silver strife
And waking - long before the morn -
Such transport breaks upon the town
I think it that "New Life"!
It is not Bird it has no nest -
Nor "band" in brass and scarlet-drest -
Nor Tamborin nor Man -
It is not Hymn from pulpit read
The "Morning Stars" the Treble led
On Time's first Afternoon!
Some say - it is "the Spheres" - at play!
Some say that bright Majority
Of vanished Dames - and Men!
Some - think it service in the place
Where we - with late - celestial face -
Please God - shall Ascertain!
6.
"Tarantella"
Text by Ovid (43 BCE - 17/18 CE), from "Fasti", book V, English
prose-translation of Elliot Carter
Music by Elliott Carter
Mater ades, mater florum, ludis celebranda iocisis!
Incipes Aprili, transis in tempora Mai:
Alter te fugiens, cum venit, alter habet.
Cum tua sint cedantque tibi confimia mensum,
Et covenit in laudes ille vel ille tuas.
Circ' in hunc exit...
Cur tamen, ut dantur vestes... albae,
Sic haec est cultu versicolore decens?
An quia maturis albescit messis atistis,
Et color et species floribus omnis inset?
Annuit, et motis flores cecidere capillis,
Accidere in mensas ut rose missa solet.
Mater ades, mater florum, ludis celebranda iocisis!
Distulerem partes mense priore tuas,
Incipes Aprili, transis in tempora Mai:
Quaerere conabar, quare lascivia maior
His foret in ludis [liberiorque iocus,]
Sed mihi succurrit numen non esse severum.
Tempora sutilibus cinguntur pota coronis,
Latet iniecta splendida mensa rosa;
Et ebrius incinctis philyra conviva capillis saltat.
Nulla corcnata peraguntur sera fronte,
Nec liquidae vinctis flore bibuntur aquae;
Donec eras mixtus nullis, Acheloe, racemis,
Et gratia sumendae non erat ullae rosae.
Bacchus amat flores: Baccho plaucisse coronam
Ex Ariadeo sidere nosse potes.
Scaene levis decet hanc: ... non est
Illa coturnas inter habenda deas.
Floreat ut toto carmen Nasonis in aevo,
sparge, precor, donis pectora nostra tuis.
(English translation by
Elliott Carter)
Appear, Mother of Flowers [Flora], be celebrated by our joyful games.
Your season begins in April and lasts till May,
one month claims as it ends,
the other as it begins.
Since the borders of these months are yours,
your praises can be sung in either one - the time of Circus games.
Why is it that at other festivals white robes are worn,
while flora is neatly dressed in a gown of many colors?
Is it because grain whitens as it ripens,
but flowers are of every color and shape?
She nodded assent,
and this motion caused the flowers to fall from her hair,
as a rose is cast on a table.
Appear, Mother of Flowers, be celebrated by our joyful games.
Last month, I put off giving you your due.
Your season begins in April and lasts till May.
I was about to ask why games are so wanton at this time,
but it occurred to me that the goddess is not strait-laced.
The brows of merry-makers are wreathed with garlands,
and the polished table is buried by a shower of roses.
Drunk, the lover sings on the hard doorstep of his girl.
No serious effort does one make whose brow is garlanded;
no brook water is imbibed by him who laces his hair with flowers.
As long as your brook, Achelous, has grape juice in it,
none cares to pick the rose.
Bacchus loves flowers,
a floral crown delights him as you can tell from Ariadnes' constellation.
Flora enjoys the lively show;
she is not, believe me, one of your tragedian goddesses.
She is not glum, not high-browed,
she wants her rite to be open to the people.
May the verse of Ovid flourish through the ages.
Shower your gifts, I pray, on our hearts.
7. "The
Defense of Corinth"
Text by Sir Thomas Urquhart (1611-1660) and Peter Anthony Motteux (1660-1718), after
François Rabelais (1490-1553), from Pantagruel
Music by Elliott Carter
When Philip, King of Macedon, enterprised the Siege and ruin of Corinth,
the Corinthians, having received certain intelligence,
by their spies, that he with a numerous army in battle array was coming against them,
were all of them, not without cause, most terribly afraid;
and therefore were not neglectful of their duty,
in doing their best endeavors to put themselves in a fit posture to resist his hostile
approach,
and defend their own city.
Some from the field brought into the fortified places their moveables,
cattle, corn, wine, fruit, victuals, and other necessary provisions.
Others did fortify and rampire their walls,
set up little fortresses, bastions, squared ravelins, digged trenches,
cleansed counter-mines, fenced themselves with gabions,
contrived platforms, emptied casements,
erected the cavaliers, mortaised barbacans,
plaistered the courtines, fastened the herses and cataracts,
new pointed with portcullices with fine steel or iron, and doubled their patrouille.
Everyone did watch and ward, and not one was exempted from carrying the basket.
Some polish'd corselets, varnished backs and breasts,
cleaned the headpieces, mailcoats, briggandins, haubergeons,
brassars and cuissars, greves, jacks, targets, shields.
They sharpened spears. They sharpened staves, prepared scymetars,
partisans, chipping knives, javelins, javelots, zagages,
truncheons, dags, daggers, poignards, bayonets, darts, dartlets, rapiers,
arrowheads, staves, skenes, sables, maces, back-swirds, battle-axes,
quarter-staves, cutlasses, clubs.
Ev'ry man exercised his weapon;
every man scowered off the rust from his natural hanger;
nor was there a woman amongst them,
(though never reserved or old), who made not her harness to be well furbished;
as you know, the Corinthian women of old were reputed very dangerous combatants.
Diogenes, seeing them all warm at work
and himself not employed by the magistrates in any business whatsoever,
he did very seriously (for many days together without speaking one word)
consider and contemplate the countenances of his fellow citizens.
Then on a sudden, as if he had been roused up and inspired by a martial spirit,
he girded his cloak, scarfways about his left arm, tucked up his sleeves to the elbow,
trussed himself like a clown gathering apples,
and giving to one of his old acquaintances his wallet, books, and opistographs,
away went he out of town towards a little hill or promontory of Corinth called Craneum:
and there on the strand, a pretty level place,
did he roll his jolly tub,
which served him for an house to shelter him from injuries of the weather;
there, I say, in a great vehemency of spirit,
did he turn it, veer it, wheel it, whirl it, frisk it, jumble it, shuffle it,
huddle it, tumble it, hurry it, justle it, jumble it, joult it,
evert it, overthrow it, subvert it, beat it, thwack it, bump it,
knock it, thrust it, push it, batterit, shock it, shake it, throw it, toss it, jerk it,
overthrow it upside-down, topsy-turvy, arsiversy, tread it, trample it,
stamp it, slamp it, tap it, ting it, ring it, tingle it, towl it, sound it, resound it,
shut it, unbung it, stop it, close it, unstopple it.
He hurled it, slid it down the hill, precipitated it from the very height of the Craneum;
heaved it, transfigured it, bespattered it, garnished it, furnished it, bored it,
bewrayed it, parched it, bedashed, tottered it, adorned, staggered it,
transformed it, brangled it, heaved it, carried it, bedashed it, hacked it;
then from the foot to the top, like another Sisyphus with his stone, bore it up again,
slid it down the hill, and every way so banged it
and belaboured it that it was ten thousand to one he had not struck the bottom of it out.
Which, when one of his friends had seen, and asked him, why he did so toil his body,
perplex his spirit, and torment his tub, the Philosopher's answer was
"That not being engaged in any other office by the Republic,
he thought it expedient to thunder and storm it so tempestuously upon his tub,
that amongst a people so fervently busy, and earnest of work,
he alone might not seem a loitering slug and lazy fellow."
8. "The
Harmony of Morning"
Text by Mark van Doren (1894-1972)
Music by Elliott Carter
The Harmony of morning,
and a thrush's throat among the sleep deserted boughs,
Expiring mists that murmur all the day of a clear dusk, with music at the close;
Night madrigal and round: there is no word melodious as those.
Rage of the viol whose deep and shady room is sounded to a tempest by the strings;
Sweet keys depressed, swift rise upon a note, whence all the narrow soul of music hangs;
The reed, and horns agreeing:
Words in the wake of these are scrannel gongs.
In them another music, half of sound and half of something taciturn between;
In them another ringing, ringing, not for ears,
Not loud;
But in the chambers of a brain are bells that clap an answer when the words move orderly,
With truth among the train,
When the words move, but in the chambers of a brain are bells
that clap an answer
When the words move,
When the words move orderly, with truth among the train.
9. "Charm
me asleep, and melt me so"
Text by Robert Herrick (1591-1674)
Music by Elliott Carter
See also:
Paul Hindemith (1895-1963),
"To Music, to becalm his Fever".
Charm me asleep, and melt me so
With thy delicious numbers,
That, being ravish'd, hence I go
Away in easy slumbers.
Ease my sick head,
And make my bed,
Thou power that canst sever
From me this ill,
And quickly still,
Though thou not kill
My fever.
Thou sweetly canst convert the same
From a consuming fire
Into a gentle licking flame,
And make it thus expire.
Then make me weep
My pains asleep;
And give me such reposes
That I, poor I,
May think thereby
I live and die
'Mongst roses.
Fall on me like [the] silent dew,
Or like those maiden showers
Which, by the peep of day, do strew
A baptism o'er the flowers
Melt, melt my pains
With thy soft strains;
That, having ease me given,
With full delight
I leave this light,
And take my flight
For Heaven.
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![[ Elliott Carter Image]](../Dizionario/images/carter.gif)