Dennis Arrowsmith, Bass-Baritone

Mentre Ti Lascio, Aria for Bass K.513
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791)

Méphistopélès:

Voici des Roses, From La Damnation de Faust
Hector Berlioz (1803-1869)

Le Mariage des Roses
Set by César Franck (1822-1890), 1871.
Text by Eugène David

My sweet, do you know how,
The roses become married?
Ah! This wedding is charming!
What tender things
They say opening
Their closed eyelids!
My sweet, do you know how
The roses become married?

They say: Let us love!
How short is life!
Let us have softer kisses,
The more delighted soul!
While the man, on his knees,
Doubts, hopes, or prays!
Oh my sisters, let us embrace,
How short is life!

Believe me, my sweet, believe me,
Let us love like them.
Look, the spring comes to you.
And, for the swallows
To love is the single law
In their faithful nests.
Oh my queen, follow your king,
Let us love like them,

Except to have loved,
What is there on Earth?
Our horizon is closed,
Shadow, night, mystery!
A single path is lit -
Love lights it to us!
Except to have loved,
What is there on Earth?

Roses D'octobre
Set by Jules Massenet (1842-1912)
Text by Paul Collin (1845-1915)

Beautiful chills that are born
When the sun embraced the air
To the first breath of the winter
The roses are astonished…

Instead of the tepid mornings
Or the laughing azure sky, fresh and clear
Why this sky the color of iron?
Why these short days?

Bending the forehead with languish
They have the premonition
Of their short, exhausted life…
A shiver passed in their hearts…
And I think well of the dew…
They sometimes mix their tears

Beautiful chills that are born
When the sun embraced the air
To the first breath of the winter
The roses are astonished!

Les Roses d'Ispahan, op. 39 no. 4
Set by Gabriel Fauré (1845-1894)
Text by Leconte De Lisle (1818-1894)

The roses of Ispahan in their sheath of moss,
The jasmines of Mosul, the flowers of the orange-tree,
Have a fragrance less fresh, have an aroma less sweet,
O pale Leila, than your light breath.

Your lips are of coral and your light laughter
Has a softer and lovelier sound than rippling water.
Lovelier than the joyous breeze that rocks the orange-tree,
Lovelier than the bird that sings near its nest of moss.

O Leila! Ever since in their airy flight
All the kisses have fled from your lips so sweet,
There is no longer any fragrance in the pale orange-tree,
No heavenly aroma from the roses in the moss.

Oh! If only your youthful love, that light butterfly,
Would return to my heart on swift and gentle wings.
And that it would perfume again the orange blossom,
The roses of Ispahan in their sheath of moss.

An Schwager Kronos (To Coachman Chronos)
D. 369 (1816), published 1825 as op. 19 no. 1

Make haste, Chronos!
Forward to the rattling lope!
Downhill glides the path;
Disgusting dizziness slowly
Seizes my mind at your dallying.
Quick, jolting equally,
Over sticks and stones - trot
Quickly into life!

Now, already again
The breathless stride goes
Tediously uphill.
Up then, not sluggish then,
Striving and hoping onwards!

Wide, tall, glorious
Is the panoramic view of life,
From mountain range to mountain range
Hovers the eternal spirit,
of eternal life.

Sideways the shadows of the overhead roof
pulls on you
And a gaze of warm freshness
From the maiden there on the threshold.
Refresh yourself! To me also, maiden,
This foaming drink,
This fresh view of health!

Down then, more quickly downwards!
See, the sun sinks!
Before it sinks, before I, an old man,
Am seized by a mist on the moor,
My toothless jaw chattering
And my shivering bones,

Drunk from the last ray
Tear me, a sea of fire
Foaming in my eye,
Blinded, staggering,
Through the nocturnal gate of Hell.

Sound, Coachman, your horn,
Rattle the clangorous trot,
That Orcus hears: we come,
That immediately at the door
The host can receive us kindly.

Wandrers Nachtlied II (Traveler's night-song)
D. 768, op. 96 no. 3 (c. 1823)

Over all the peaks it is peaceful;
in all the treetops you feel
hardly a breath of wind;
the little birds are silent in the forest,
only wait, soon
you will rest as well!

Erlkönig (Erl King)
D. 328 (Oct., 1815), First published in 1821 as op. 1

Who rides so late through night and wind?
It is the father with his child;
He holds the boy secure in his arms,
He holds him safely, he keeps him warm.

“My son, what makes your face so fearful?”
“Do you not see, Father, the Erl King?
The Erl King, with crown and comet tail?”
“My son, it is a patch of fog.”

“You dear child, come, walk with me!
Beautiful games I will play with you;
Some colorful flowers are on the riverbank,
My mother has some golden garments.”

“My father, my father, and do you not hear,
What Erl King quietly promises to me?”
“Be quiet, stay quiet, my child:
The wind whispers in the dry leaves.”

“Do you want, fine boy, to go with me?
My daughters should wait on you beautifully;
My daughters lead the nightly dance
And sway and dance and sing you to rest.”

“My father, my father, and do you not see there
Erl King's daughters at the sepulchral place?”
“My son, my son, I see it exactly:
It is the way the old willows appear so gray.”

“I love you, your beautiful form tempts me;
And if you are not willing, the I will use force.”
“My father, my father, he grabs me now!
Erl King has wounded me!”

It horrifies the father, he rides swiftly,
He holds in his arms the sighing child,
He reaches the farmyard limping:
In his arms the child was dead.

1. To Music, to becalm his Fever
2. Cherry-Ripe
3. Upon Julia's Clothes
4. To Daisies, not to shut so Soon
5. Epitaph (upon a Child that died)
6. Another Epitaph
7. To the Willow-tree
8. Comfort to a Youth that had lost his Love
9. Piano Interlude
10. To Anthea, Who may command him Anything

I.  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.

1:26	II.  Cherry-Ripe

Cherry-Ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones; come and buy.
If it be you ask me where
They do grow, I answer: There
Where my Julia’s lips do smile;
There’s the land, or cherry isle,
Whose plantations fully show
All the year where cherries grow.

0:49	III.  Upon Julia's Clothes

Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
The liquefaction of her clothes!

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free,
O how that glittering taketh me!

IV.  To Daisies, not to shut so Soon

Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night
    Has not as yet begun
To make a seizure on the light,
    Or to seal up the sun.

No marigolds yet closed are;
    No shadows great appear
Nor doth the early shepherds' star
    Shine like a spangle here.

Stay but till my Julia close
    Her life-begetting eye,
And let the whole world then dispose
    Itself to live or die.

V.  Epitaph
(upon a Child that died)

Here she lies, a pretty bud,
Lately made of flesh and blood:
Who as soon fell fast asleep
As her little eyes did peep.
Give her strewings but not stir
The earth that lightly covers her.

VI.  Another Epitaph

Here a pretty baby lies
Sung asleep with lullabies:
Pray be silent and not stir
Th’easy earth that covers her.

VII.  To the Willow-tree

Thou art to all lost love the best,
   The only true plant found,
Where-with young men and maids distrest,
   And left of love, are crown’d.

When once the lover’s rose is dead,
   Or laid aside forlorn:
Then willow garlands ‘bout the head
   Bedew’d with tears are worn.

When with neglect, the lover’s bane,
   Poor maids rewarded be
For their love lost, their only gain
   Is but a wreath from thee.

And underneath thy cooling shade,
   When weary of the light,
The love-spent youth and lovesick maid
   Come to weep out the night.

VIII.  Comfort to a Youth that had lost his Love

What needs complaints
When she a place
Has with the race
   Of Saints?

In endless mirth
She thinks not on
What’s said or done
   In Earth.

She sees no tears,
Or any tone
Of thy deep groan
   She hears:

Nor does she mind
Or think on’t now
That ever thou
   Wast kind;

But changed above,
She likes not there
As she did here,
   Thy love.

Forbear therefore,
And lull asleep
Thy woes, and weep
   No more.

IX.  Piano Interlude
Mable Kwan

X.  To Anthea, who may command him Anything

Bid me to live, and I will live
   Thy Protestant to be:
Or bid me love, and I will give
   A loving heart to thee.

A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
   A heart as sound and free,
As in the whole world thou canst find,
   That heart I'll give to thee.

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,
   To honour thy Decree:
Or bid it languish quite away,
   And 't shall be done so for thee.

Bid me to weep, and I will weep,
   While I have eyes to see:
And having none, yet will I keep
   A heart to weep for thee.

Bid me despair, and I'll despair,
   Under that cypress-tree:
Or bid me die, and I will dare
   E'en Death, to die for thee.

Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
   The very eyes of me:
And has command of ev'ry part,
   To live and die for thee.