Recital: Nicholas Duffin '21 MM, Tenor
NEC's students meet one-on-one each week with a faculty artist to perfect their craft. As each one leaves NEC to make their mark in the performance world, they present a full, professional recital that is free and open to the public. It's your first look at the artists of tomorrow.
Nicholas Duffin '21 MM studies Voice with Karen Holvik.
- Nicholas Duffin '21, tenor
C. P. E. Bach | from Geistliche Oden und Lieder, H. 686 Wq. 194
7. Prüfung am Abend
37. Vom Tode
15. MorgengesangPrüfung am Abend
Der Tag ist wieder hin, und diesen Teil des Lebens,
wie hab ich ihn verbracht? Verstrich er mir vergebens?
Hab ich mit allem Ernst dem Guten nachgestrebt?
Hab ich vielleicht nur mir, nicht meiner Pflicht
gelebt?
Gott, der du alles weißt, was könnt ich dir verhehlen?
Ich fühle täglich noch die Schwachheit meiner Seelen.
Vergib durch Christi Blut mir die verletzte Pflicht;
vergib und gehe du mit mir nicht ins Gericht.
Ja, du verzeihest dem, den seine Sünden kränken;
du liebst Barmherzigkeit und wirst auch mir sie schenken.
Auch diese Nacht bist du der Wächter über mir;
leb ich, so leb ich dir, sterb ich, so sterb ich dir!Examination at Evening
Once again the day is over; how have I done
With this portion of my life? Is it crossed out in vain?
Have I striven with all earnestness after good?
Have I perhaps lived only for myself, not according to my
obligation
O God, who knows all, what could I hide from you?
Daily I still feel the weakness of my soul.
Forgive, through Christ’s blood, my unfulfilled tasks,
Forgive, and do not sit in judgement against me!
Yes, you pardon those whom sin afflicts;
You love mercy and will also grant it to me.
Again this night you will watch over me;
as I live, I live for you; as I die, I die in you!Vom Tode
Meine Lebenszeit verstreicht,
Stündlich eil ich zu dem Grabe,
Und was ist's, das ich vielleicht,
Das ich noch zu leben habe?
Denk, o Mensch, an deinen Tod!
Säume nicht, denn Eins ist Not!
Lebe, wie du, wenn du stirbst,
Wünschen wirst, gelebt zu haben
Güter, die du hier erwirbst,
Würden, die dir Menschen gaben;
Nichts wird dich im Tod erfreun;
Diese Güter sind nicht dein.
Nur ein Herz, das Gutes liebt,
Nur ein ruhiges Gewissen,
Das vor Gott dir Zeugnis gibt,
Wird dir deinen Tod versüßen;
Dieses Herz, von Gott erneut,
Ist des Todes Freudigkeit.
Wenn in deiner letzten Not
Freunde hülflos um dich beben:
Dann wird über Welt und Tod
Dich dies reine Herz erheben;
Dann erschreckt dich kein Gericht;
Gott ist deine Zuversicht.
Überwind ihn durch Vertraun,
Sprich: Ich weiß, an wen ich gläube,
Und ich weiß, ich werd ihn schaun
Einst in diesem meinem Leibe.
Er, der rief: Es ist vollbracht!
Nahm dem Tode seine Macht.On Death
My lifetime runs out,
hourly I speed towards the grave.
What is it that I possibly
still have to live for?
Think, O man, on your death,
avoid it not; it is the one necessity!
Live so that, when you die,
you have lived as you would have wished.
Possessions that you have acquired on earth,
honors that people gave you,
none of these will bring you joy in death;
these goods are not yours.
Only a heart that loves goodness,
only a peaceful conscience
that bears witness for you before God,
will sweeten your death for you.
In this heart, renewed by God,
the joy of death is found.
If, in your final suffering,
friends sob helplessly around you,
then this pure heart will uplift you
over the world and death;
then no judgement can frighten you:
God is your assurance
Overcome it through confidence.
Say: I know in whom I believe,
and I know that I will behold him
one day in this my own body.
He, who cried out: It is fulfilled!
took away from death its powerMorgengesang
Mein erst Gefühl sei Preis und Dank;
erheb ihn, meine Seele!
Der Herr hört deinen Lobgesang:
Lobsing ihm, meine Seele!
Mich selbst zu schützen, ohne Macht,
lag ich und schlief im Frieden.
We Schafft die Sicherheit der Nacht
und Ruhe für die Müden?
Wer wacht, wenn ich von mir nichts weiß,
mein Leben zu bewahren?
Wer stärkt mein Blut in seinem Fleiß
und schützt mich vor Gefahren?
Wer lehrt das Auge seine Pflicht,
sich sicher zu bedecken?
We ruft dem Tag und seinem Licht,
die Seele zu erwecken?
Du bist es, Herr und Gott der Welt,
und dein ist unser Leben.
Du bist es, der es uns erhält,
und mir's itzt neu gegeben.
Gib mir ein Herz voll Zuversicht,
erfüllt mit Lieb und Ruhe,
ein weises Herz, das seine Pflicht
erkenn und willig tue.
Christian Fürchtegott GellertMorning Song
May the first emotion I feel be praise and gratitude:
Uplift him, my soul!
The Lord attends to your song of praise;
sing praise to him my soul!
Powerless to protect myself,
I lie and sleep in peace.
Who provides security at night
and rest for the weary?
Who watches, when I know nothing of myself,
protecting my life?
Who fortifies my blood in its course,
and guards me from danger?
Who teaches the eye its office,
to close itself tightly?
Who calls forth the day and its light,
to awaken the soul?
It is you, Lord and God of the world,
and yours is our life.
It is you who sustains it for us
and grants it to me renewed now.
Give me a heart full of confidence,
overflowing with love and peace,
a wise heart, which knows
and willingly does its duty.
Translation © 2016 by Pamela DellalErik Satie | Trois Mélodies
La statue de bronze
Daphénéo
Le ChapelierLa statue de bronze
La grenouille
Du jeu de tonneau
S'ennuie, le soir, sous la tonnelle...
Elle en a assez!
D'être la statue
Qui va prononcer un grand mot: Le Mot!
Elle aimerait mieux être avec les autres
Qui font des bulles de musique
Avec le savon de la lune
Au bord du lavoir mordoré
Qu'on voit, là-bas, luire entre les branches…
On lui lance à coeur de journée
Une pâture de pistoles
Qui la traversent sans lui profiter
Et s'en vont sonner
Dans les cabinets
De son piédestal numéroté!
Et le soir, les insectes couchent
Dans sa bouche…
Léon-Paul FargueThe bronze statue
The frog
Of the barrel game
Grows weary at evening, beneath the arbor...
She has had enough!
Of being the statue
Who is about to pronounce a great word: The Word!
She would love to be with the others
Who make music bubbles
With the soap of the moon
Beside the lustrous bronze tub
That one sees there, shining between the branches...
At midday one hurls at her
A feast of discs
That pass through without benefit to her
And will resound
In the chambers
Of her numbered pedestal!
And at night, the insects go to sleep
In her mouth...
Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © by Shawn Thuris from the LiederNet Archive; https://www.lieder.net/Daphénéo
Dis-moi, Daphénéo, quel est donc cet arbre
Dont les fruits sont des oiseaux qui pleurent?
Cet arbre, Chrysaline, est un oisetier.
Ah! Je croyais que les noisetiers
Donnaient des noisettes, Daphénéo.
Oui, Chrysaline, les noisetiers donnent des noisettes,
Mais les oisetiers donnent des oiseaux qui pleurent.
Ah!...
Mimi GodebskaDapheneo
Tell me, Dapheneo, what is that tree
The fruit of which is weeping birds?
That tree, Chrysaline, is a bird-tree.
Ah! I believe that trees
Produce hazelnuts, Dapheneo.
Yes, Chrysaline, trees give hazelnuts,
But bird-trees give weeping birds.
Ah!...
Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © by Shawn Thuris from the LiederNet Archive, https://www.lieder.net/Le Chapelier
Le chapelier s'étonne de constater
Que sa montre retarde de trois jours,
Bien qu'il ait eu soin de la graisser
Toujours avec du beurre de première qualité.
Mais il a laissé tomber des miettes
De pain dans les rouages,
Et il a beau plonger sa montre dans le thé,
Ça ne le fera pas avancer davantage.
René ChaluptThe hatmaker
The hatmaker is surprised to note
That his watch is three days slow,
Though he has taken care to grease it,
Always with first-quality butter.
But he allowed crumbs of bread
To fall into its gears,
And though he plunged his watch in tea,
This will not advance it any further.
Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © by Shawn Thuris from the LiederNet Archive; https://www.lieder.net/intermission
Gerald Finzi | A Young Man's Exhortation
Part One
A Young Man's Exhortation
Ditty
Budmouth Dears
Her Temple
The Comet at Yell'ham
Part Two
Shortening Days
The Sigh
Former Beauties
Transformations
The Dance Continued ('Regret Not Me')
A Young Man’s Exhortation
Part 1
A Young Man’s Exhortation
Call off your eyes from care
By some determined deftness; put forth joys
Dear as excess without the core that cloys,
And charm Life's lourings fair.
Exalt and crown the hour
That girdles us, and fill it full with glee,
Blind glee, excelling aught could ever be,
Were heedfulness in power.
Send up such touching strains
That limitless recruits from Fancy's pack
Shall rush upon your tongue, and tender back
All that your soul contains.
For what do we know best?
That a fresh love-leaf crumpled soon will dry,
And that men moment after moment die,
Of all scope dispossest.
If I have seen one thing
It is the passing preciousness of dreams;
That aspects are within us; and who seems
Most kingly is the King.
Ditty
Beneath a knap where flown
Nestlings play,
Within walls of weathered stone,
Far away
From the files of formal houses,
By the bough the firstling browses,
Lives a Sweet: no merchants meet,
No men barters, no man sells
Where she dwells.
Upon that fabric fair
"Here is she!"
Seems written everywhere
Unto me.
But to friends and nodding neighbours,
Fellow wights in lot and labours,
Who descry the times as I,
No such lucid legend tells
Where she dwells.
Should I lapse to what I was
Ere we met;
(Such will not be, but because
Some forget
Let me feign it) - none would notice
That where she I know by rote is
Spread a strange and withering change,
Like a drying of the wells
Where she dwells.
To feel I might have kissed -
Loved as true -
Otherwhere, nor Mine have missed
My life through,
Had I never wandered near her,
Is a smart severe - severer
In the thought that she is nought,
Even as I, beyond the dells
Where she dwells.
And Devotion droops her glance
To recall
What bond-servants of Chance
We are all.
I but found her in that, going
On my errant path unknowing,
I did not out-skirt the spot
That no spot on earth excels -
Where she dwells!
Budmouth Dears
When we lay where Budmouth Beach is,
O, the girls were fresh as peaches,
With their tall and tossing figures and their eyes of blue and brown!
And our hearts would ache with longing
As we paced from our sing-songing,
With a smart Clink! Clink! up the Esplanade and down.
They distracted and delayed us
By the pleasant pranks they played us,
And what marvel, then, if troopers, even of regiments of renown,
On whom flashed those eyes divine, O,
Should forget the countersign, O,
As we tore Clink! Clink! back to camp above the town.
Do they miss us much, I wonder,
Now that war has swept us sunder,
And we roam from where the faces smile to where the faces frown?
And no more behold the features
Of the fair fantastic creatures,
And no more Clink! Clink! past the parlours of the town?
Shall we once again there meet them?
Falter fond attempts to greet them?
Will the gay sling-jacket glow again beside the muslin gown?
Will they archly quiz and con us
With a sideway glance upon us,
While our spurs Clink! Clink! up the Esplanade and down?
Her Temple
Dear, think not that they will forget you:
If craftsmanly art should be mine
I will build up a temple, and set you
Therein as its shrine.
They may say: "Why a woman such honour?"
Be told, "O so sweet was her fame,
That a man heaped this splendour upon her;
None now knows his name."
The Comet at Yell’ham
It bends far over Yell'ham Plain,
And we, from Yell'ham Height,
Stand and regard its fiery train,
So soon to swim from sight.
It will return long years hence, when
As now its strange swift shine
Will fall on Yell'ham; but not then
On that sweet form of thine.
Part 2
Shortening Days
The first fire since the summer is lit, and is smoking into the room:
The sun-rays thread it through, like woof-lines in a loom.
Sparrows spurt from the hedge, whom misgivings appal
That winter did not leave last year for ever, after all.
Like shock-headed urchins, spiny-haired,
Stand pollard willows, their twigs just bared.
Who is this coming with pondering pace,
Black and ruddy, with white embossed,
His eyes being black, and ruddy his face
And the marge of his hair like morning frost?
It's the cider-maker,
And appletree-shaker,
And behind him on wheels, in readiness,
His mill, and tubs, and vat, and press.
The sigh
Little head against my shoulder,
Shy at first, then somewhat bolder,
And up eyed;
Till she, with a timid quaver,
Yielded to the kiss I gave her;
But, she sighed.
That there mingled with her feeling
Some sad thought she was concealing
It implied.
Not that she had ceased to love me,
None on earth she set above me;
But she sighed.
She could not disguise a passion,
Dread, or doubt, in weakest fashion
If she tried:
Nothing seemed to hold us sundered,
Hearts were victors; so I wondered
Why she sighed.
Afterwards I knew her thoroughly,
And she loved me staunchly, truly,
Till she died;
But she never made confession
Why, at that first sweet concession,
She had sighed.
It was in our May, remember;
And though now I near November
And abide
Till my appointed change, unfretting,
Sometimes I sit half regretting
That she sighed.
Former Beauties
These market-dames, mid-aged, with lips thin-drawn,
And tissues sere,
Are they the ones we loved in years agone,
And courted here?
Are these the muslined pink young things to whom
We vowed and swore
In nooks on summer Sundays by the Froom,
Or Budmouth shore?
Do they remember those gay tunes we trod
Clasped on the green;
Aye; trod till moonlight set on the beaten sod
A satin sheen?
They must forget, forget! They cannot know
What once they were,
Or memory would transfigure them, and show
Them always fair.
Transformations
Portion of this yew
Is a man my grandsire knew,
Bosomed here at its foot:
This branch may be his wife,
A ruddy human life
Now turned to a green shoot.
These grasses must be made
Of her who often prayed,
Last century, for repose;
And the fair girl long ago
Whom I often tried to know
May be entering this rose.
So, they are not underground,
But as nerves and veins abound
In the growths of upper air,
And they feel the sun and rain,
And the energy again
That made them what they were!
The Dance Continued (‘Regret Not Me’)
Regret not me;
Beneath the sunny tree
I lie uncaring, slumbering peacefully.
Swift as the light
I flew my faery flight;
Ecstatically I moved, and feared no night.
I did not know
That heydays fade and go,
But deemed that what was would be always so.
I skipped at morn
Between the yellowing corn,
Thinking it good and glorious to be born.
I ran at eves
Among the piled-up sheaves,
Dreaming, `I grieve not, therefore nothing grieves'
Now soon will come
The apple, pear, and plum,
And hinds will sing, and autumn insects hum.
Again you will fare
To cider-makings rare,
And junketings; but I shall not be there.
Yet gaily sing
Until the pewter ring
Those songs we sang when we went gipsying.
And lightly dance
Some triple-timed romance
In coupled figures, and forget mischance;
And mourn not me
Beneath the yellowing tree;
For I shall mind not, slumbering peacefully.Thomas Hardy