Recital: Caroline Kathleen Nielson '23 DMA, Mezzo-Soprano
In the course of completing the Doctor of Musical Arts degree at New England Conservatory, performance majors present not just one, but three full-length recitals, for which they also write program notes. It's an opportunity to observe multiple facets of an emerging artist.
Caroline Kathleen Nielson '23 DMA studies Voice with Michael Meraw and is the recipient of the Florence C. Rowe Voice Scholarship and a scholarship made possible by the Gertrude G. and Malcolm S. Morse Memorial Fund.
This performance will be viewable in person and also via livestream.
- Caroline Kathleen Nielson '23 DMA, mezzo-soprano
- Michael Meraw, studio teacher
Claude Debussy | Trois Chansons de Bilitis
La flûte de Pan
La chevelure
Le tombeau des NaïadesText
La flûte de Pan
Pour le jour des Hyacinthies,
il m’a donné une syrinx
faite de roseaux bien taillés,
unis avec la blanche cire
qui est douce à mes lèvres comme le miel.
Il m’apprend à jouer, assise sur ses genoux;
mais je suis un peu tremblante.
Il en joue après moi,
si doucement que je l’entends à peine.
Nous n’avons rien à nous dire,
tant nous sommes près l’un de l’autre;
mais nos chansons veulent se répondre,
et tour à tour nos bouches
s’unissent sur la flûte.
Il est tard;
voici le chant des grenouilles vertes
qui commence avec la nuit.
Ma mère ne croira jamais
que je suis restée si longtemps
à chercher ma ceinture perdue.
La chevelure
Il m’a dit: «Cette nuit, j’ai rêvé.
J’avais ta chevelure autour de mon cou.
J’avais tes cheveux comme un
collier noir autour de ma nuque et sur ma poitrine.
«Je les caressais, et c’étaient les miens;
et nous étions liés pour toujours ainsi,
par la même chevelure la bouche sur la bouche,
ainsi que deux lauriers n’ont souvent qu’une racine.
«Et peu à peu, il m’a semblé,
tant nos members étaient confondus,
que je devenais toi-même
ou que tu entrais en moi comme mon songe.»
Quand il eut achevé,
il mit doucement ses mains sur mes épaules,
et il me regarda d’un regard si tendre,
que je baissai les yeux avec un frisson.
Le tombeau des Naïades
Le long du bois couvert de givre, je marchais;
mes cheveux devant ma bouche
se fleurissaient de petits glaçons,
et mes sandales étaient lourdes
de neige fangeuse et tassée.
Il me dit: «Que cherches-tu?»
«Je suis la trace du satyre.
Ses petits pas fourchus alternent
comme des trous dans un manteau blanc.»
Il me dit: «Les satyres sont morts.
«Les satyres et les nymphes aussi.
Depuis trente ans il n’a pas fait un hiver aussi terrible.
La trace que tu vois est celle d’un bouc.
Mais restons ici, où est leur tombeau.»
Et avec le fer de sa houe il cassa la glace
de la source où jadis riaient les naïades.
Il prenait de grands morceaux froids,
et les soulevant vers le ciel pâle,
il regardait au travers.
Pierre Louÿs (1870-1925)The pan-pipes
For the festival of Hyacinthus
he gave me a syrinx,
a set of pipes made from well-cut reeds,
joined with the white wax
that is sweet to my lips like honey.
He is teaching me to play, as I sit on his knees;
but I tremble a little.
He plays it after me,
so softly that I can scarcely hear it.
We are so close that we have
nothing to say to one another;
but our songs want to converse,
and our mouths are joined
as they take turns on the pipes.
It is late:
here comes the chant of the green frogs,
which begins at dusk.
My mother will never believe
I spent so long
searching for my lost waistband.
The hair
He told me: "Last night I had a dream.
Your hair was around my neck,
it was like a black necklace
round my nape and on my chest.
"I was stroking your hair, and it was my own;
thus the same tresses joined us forever,
with our mouths touching,
just as two laurels often have only one root.
"And gradually I sensed,
since our limbs were so entwined,
that I was becoming you
and you were entering me like my dream."
When he'd finished,
he gently put his hands on my shoulders,
and gazed at me so tenderly
that I lowered my eyes, quivering.
The tomb of the water‑nymphs
I was walking along in the frost-covered woods;
in front of my mouth
my hair blossomed in tiny icicles,
and my sandals were heavy
with muddy caked snow.
He asked: "What are you looking for?"
"I'm following the tracks of the satyr -
his little cloven hoofprints alternate
like holes in a white cloak."
He said: "The satyrs are dead.
"The satyrs are dead, and the nymphs too.
In thirty years there has not been such a terrible winter.
That's the trail of a goat.
But let's pause here, where their tomb is."
With his hoe he broke the ice
of the spring where the water-nymphs used to laugh.
There he was, picking up large cold slabs of ice,
lifting them toward the pale sky
and peering through them.
Translations from French (Français) to English copyright © 2000 by Peter Low, Reprinted with permission from the LiederNet Archive. https://www.lieder.net/.Benjamin Britten | A Charm of Lullabies, op. 41
A Cradle Song
A Highland Balou
Sephestia’s Lullaby
A Charm
The Nurse’s SongText
A Cradle Song
Sleep! Sleep! Beauty bright,
Dreaming o'er the joys of night;
Sleep! Sleep! In thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep.
Sweet Babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.
O, the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep.
When thy little heart does wake
Then the dreadful lightnings break,
From thy cheek and from thy eye,
O'er the youthful harvests nigh.
Infant wiles and infant smiles
Heav’n and Earth of peace beguiles.
William Blake
A Highland Balou
Hee Balou, my sweet wee Donald,
Picture o' the great Clanronald!
Brawlie kens our wanton Chief
What gat my young Highland thief.
Leeze me on thy bonnie craigie!
An thou live, thou'll steal a naigie,
Travel the country thro' and thro' ,
and bring hame a Carlisle cow!
Thro' the Lawlands, o'er the Border,
Weel, my babie, may thou furder!
Herry the louns o' the laigh Countrie,
Syne to the Highlands hame to me!
Robert Burns
Sephestia's Lullaby
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
Mother's wag, pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy;
When thy father first did see
Such a boy by him and me,
He was glad, I was woe;
Fortune changèd made him so,
When he left his pretty boy,
Last his sorrow, first his joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
The wanton smiled, father wept,
Mother cried, baby leapt;
More he crowèd, more we cried,
Nature could not sorrow hide:
He must go, he must kiss
Child and mother, baby bliss,
For he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.
Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,
When thou art old there's grief enough for thee.
Robert Greene
A Charm
Quiet, Sleep! or I will make
Erinnys whip thee with a snake,
And cruel Rhadamanthus take
Thy body to the boiling lake,
Where fire and brimstones never slake;
Thy heart shall burn, thy head shall ache,
And ev'ry joint about thee quake;
And therefore dare not yet to wake!
Quiet, Sleep! or thou shalt see
The horrid hags of Tartary,
Whose tresses ugly serpents be,
And Cerberus shall bark at thee,
And all the Furies that are three
The worst is called Tisiphone,
Shall lash thee to eternity;
And therefore sleep thou peacefully.
Thomas Randolph
The Nurse's Song
Lullaby baby,
Lullabylaby baby,
Thy nurse will tend thee as duly as may be.
Lullaby baby!
Be still, my sweet sweeting, no longer do cry;
Sing lullaby baby, lullaby baby.
Let dolours be fleeting, I fancy thee, I…
To rock and to lull thee I will not delay me.
Lullaby baby
Lullabylabylaby baby,
Thy nurse will tend thee as duly as may be
Lullabylabylaby baby
The gods be thy shield and comfort in need!
Sing lullaby baby,
Lullabylaby baby…
They give thee good fortune and well for to speed,
And this to desire… I will not delay me.
This to desire… I will not delay me.
Lullaby baby
Lullabylaby baby,
Thy nurse will tend thee as duly as may be.
Lullabylabylabylaby baby.
John PhillipAlban Berg | Vier Gesänge, op. 2
Dem Schmerz sein recht
Schlafend trägt man mich
Nun ich der Riesen Stärksten überwand
Warm die LüfteText
Schlafen, Schlafen, nichts als Schlafen!
Schlafen, Schlafen, nichts als Schlafen!
Kein Erwachen, keinen Traum!
Jener Wehen, die mich trafen,
Leisestes Erinnern kaum.
Daß ich, wenn des Lebens Fülle
Niederklingt in meine Ruh',
Nur noch tiefer mich verhülle,
Fester zu die Augen tu!
Christian Friedrich Hebbel
Schlafend trägt man mich
Schlafend trägt man mich
in mein Heimatland.
Ferne komm' ich her,
über Gipfel, über Schlünde,
über ein dunkles Meer
in mein Heimatland.
Alfred Mombert
Nun ich der Riesen Stärksten überwand
Nun ich der Riesen Stärksten überwand,
mich aus dem dunkelsten Land heimfand
an einer weißen Märchenhand,
Hallen schwer die Glocken.
Und ich wanke durch die Gassen
schlafbefangen.
Alfred Mombert
Warm die Lüfte
Warm die Lüfte,
es sprießt Gras auf sonnigen Wiesen,
Horch! Horch, es flötet die Nachtigall.
Ich will singen:
Droben hoch im düstern Bergforst,
es schmilzt und glitzert kalter Schnee,
ein Mädchen im grauen Kleide
lehnt am feuchten Eichstamm,
krank sind ihre zarten Wangen,
die grauen Augen fiebern
durch Düsterriesenstämme.
"Er kommt noch nicht.
Er läßt mich warten…"
Stirb!
Der Eine stirbt, daneben der Andere lebt:
Das macht die Welt so tiefschön.
Alfred Mombert
Alfred MombertTo sleep, to sleep, nothing but to sleep!
To sleep, to sleep, nothing but to sleep!
No awaking, no dream!
Of those sorrows that I suffered,
hardly the faintest recollection.
So that I, when the fullness of life
reverberates into my rest,
I will only cover myself even more deeply,
and more tightly close my eyes!
Sleeping, I am carried
Sleeping, I am carried
to my homeland.
I come from afar,
over peaks, over chasms,
over a dark ocean
to my homeland.
Now that I have overcome the strongest of the giants
Now that I have overcome the strongest of the giants,
from the darkest land, found my way home
guided by a white fairy hand,
the bells resound heavily,
and I stagger through the streets
in the throes of sleep.
Warm are the breezes
Warm are the breezes;
Grass grows in sunny meadows,
Listen! Listen, there pipes the nightingale.
I will sing:
High up there in dusky mountain forests,
Cold snow melts and oozes;
A maiden in a grey dress
leans against a damp oak tree;
Her cheeks are ill,
The grey eyes burn
Through the dusky, giant tree trunks.
"He doesn't come yet.
He's making me wait…"
Die!
The one dies while the other lives:
That makes the world so deeply beautiful.
English translations © Jakob Kellner. Reprinted with permission from the LiederNet Archive. https://www.lieder.net/.Ruth Crawford Seeger | Five Songs
Home Thoughts
White Moon
Joy
Loam
SunsetsText
Home Thoughts
The sea rocks have a green moss.
The pine rocks have red berries.
I have memories of you.
Speak to me of how you miss me.
Tell me the hours go long and slow.
Speak to me of the drag on your heart,
The iron drag of the long days.
I know hours empty as a beggar’s tin cup on a rainy day,
empty as a soldier’s sleeve with an arm lost.
Speak to me.
White Moon
White Moon comes in on a baby face.
The shafts across her bed are flimmering.
Out on the land White Moon shines,
Shines and glimmers against gnarled shadows,
All silver to slow twisted shadows
Falling across the long road that runs from the house.
Keep a little of your beauty
And some of your flimmering silver
For her by the window tonight
Where you come in, White Moon.
Joy
Let a joy keep you.
Reach out your hands
And take it when it runs by,
As the Apache dancer
Clutches his woman.
I have seen them
Live long and laugh loud,
Sent on singing, singing,
Smashed to the heart
Under the ribs
With a terrible love. Joy always,
Joy everywhere —
Let joy kill you!
Keep away from the little deaths.
Loam
In the loam we sleep,
In the cool moist loam,
To the lull of years that pass
And the break of stars,
From the loam, then,
The soft warm loam,
We rise: To shape of rose leaf,
Of face and shoulder.
We stand, then,
To a whiff of life,
Lifted to the silver of the sun
Over and out of the loam
A day.
Sunsets
There are sunsets that whisper a good-by.
There is a short dusk and a way for stars.
Prairie and sea rim they go level and even
And the sleep is easy.
There are sunsets that dance good-by.
They fling scarves half to the arc,
To the arc then and over the arc.
Ribbons at the ears, sashes at the hips,
Dancing, dancing good-by. And here sleep
Tosses a little with dreams.
Carl SandburgOttorino Respighi | Il tramonte
Text
Il tramonto
Già v'ebbe un uomo, nel cui tenue spirto
(qual luce e vento in delicata nube
che ardente ciel di mezzo-giorno stempri)
la morte e il genio contendeano. Oh! quanta tenera gioia,
che gli fè il respiro venir meno
(così dell'aura estiva l'ansia talvolta)
quando la sua dama, che allor solo conobbe l'abbandono
pieno e il concorde palpitar di due creature che s'amano,
egli addusse pei sentieri d'un campo,
ad oriente da una foresta biancheggiante ombrato
ed a ponente discoverto al cielo!
Ora è sommerso il sole; ma linee d'oro
pendon sovra le cineree nubi,
sul verde piano sui tremanti fiori
sui grigi globi dell' antico smirnio,
e i neri boschi avvolgono,
del vespro mescolandosi alle ombre.
Lenta sorge ad oriente
l'infocata luna tra i folti rami delle piante cupe:
brillan sul capo languide le stelle.
E il giovine sussura: "Non è strano?
Io mai non vidi il sorgere del sole,
o Isabella. Domani a contemplarlo verremo insieme."
Il giovin e la dama giacquer
tra il sonno e il dolce amor
congiunti ne la notte: al mattin
gelido e morto ella trovò l'amante.
Oh! nessun creda che, vibrando tal colpo,
fu il Signore misericorde.
Non morì la dama, né folle diventò:
anno per anno visse ancora.
Ma io penso che la queta sua pazienza, e i trepidi sorrisi,
e il non morir... ma vivere a custodia
del vecchio padre(se è follia dal mondo dissimigliare)
fossero follia.
Era, null'altro che a vederla,come leggere un canto
da ingegnoso bardointessuto a piegar gelidi cuori
in un dolor pensoso.
Neri gli occhi ma non fulgidi più;
consunte quasi le ciglia dalle lagrime;
le labbra e le gote parevan cose morte tanto eran bianche;
ed esili le mani e per le erranti vene e le giunture rossa
del giorno trasparia la luce.
La nuda tomba, che il tuo fral racchiude,
cui notte e giorno un'ombra tormentata abita,
è quanto di te resta, o cara creatura perduta!
"Ho tal retaggio, che la terra non dà:
calma e silenzio, senza peccato e senza passione.
Sia che i morti ritrovino (non mai il sonno!) ma il riposo,
imperturbati quali appaion,
o vivano, o d'amore nel mar profondo scendano;
oh! che il mio epitaffio, che il tuo sia: Pace!"
Questo dalle sue labbra l'unico lamento.
Translated from the original English by Roberto AscoliThe sunset
There late was One within whose subtle being,
As light and wind within some delicate cloud
That fades amid the blue noon's burning sky,
Genius and death contended. None may know
The sweetness of the joy which made his breath
Fail, like the trances of the summer air,
When, with the lady of his love, who then
First knew the unreserve of mingled being,
He walked along the pathway of a field
Which to the east a hoar wood shadowed o'er,
But to the west was open to the sky.
There now the sun had sunk, but lines of gold
Hung on the ashen clouds, and on the points
Of the far level grass and nodding flowers
And the old dandelion's hoary beard,
And, mingled with the shades of twilight, lay
On the brown massy woods - and in the east
The broad and burning moon lingeringly rose
Between the black trunks of the crowded trees,
While the faint stars were gathering overhead.
"Is it not strange, Isabel," said the youth,
"I never saw the sun?
We will walk here. To-morrow, thou shalt look on it with me."
That night the youth and lady mingled lay
In love and sleep -
but when the morning came
The lady found her lover dead and cold.
Let none believe that God in mercy gave
That stroke.
The lady died not, nor grew wild,
But year by year lived on - in truth I think
Her gentleness and patience and sad smiles,
And that she did not die, but lived to tend
Her agèd father, were a kind of madness,
If madness 'tis to be unlike the world.
For but to see her were to read the tale
Woven by some subtlest bard, to make hard hearts
Dissolve away in wisdom-working grief;
Her eyes were black and lustreless and wan:
Her eyelashes were worn away with tears,
Her lips and cheeks were like things dead - so pale;
Her hands were thin, and through their wandering veins
And weak articulations might be seen Day's ruddy light. The tomb of thy dead self
Which one vexed ghost inhabits, night and day,
Is all, lost child, thatnow remains of thee!
"Inheritor of more than earth can give,
Passionless calm and silence unreproved,
Where the dead find, oh, not sleep! but rest,
And are the uncomplaining things they seem,
Or live, a drop in the deep sea of Love;
Oh, that like thine, mine epitaph were: Peace!"
This was the only moan she ever made.
Percy Bysshe ShelleyArtists- Emma Carleton and Justus Ross, violin
- Aidan Garrison, viola
- Dilshod Narzillaev, cello