Live With Me ... is new twist on my setting of this (see below). Originally written for piano and SATB choir, I've now given it a 21st century makeover, for an ensemble of female soul singers and a combo of piano, electric bass and drums.
As you can see from my listing for the Choir Mix, originally I was led to believe that the poem was authored by Shakespeare, because it has been included in several anthologies of Shakepeare's work since first published by William Jaggard in 1599. However, I have since learned that it's widely attributed to Christopher Marlowe, with a final verse by Sir Walter Raleigh - apparently this sort of 'plagiarism' by anthology publishers was not uncommon in those times, and even persisted up to the early 20th century in the 1914 Oxford edition of the Complete Works of William Shakespeare!
Live with me and be my love Christopher Marlowe & Sir Walter Raleigh
LIVE with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, And all the craggy mountains yields.
There will we sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, by whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee a bed of roses, With a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider’d all with leaves of myrtle.
A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs; And if these pleasures may thee move, Then live with me and be my love.
LOVE’S ANSWER If that the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd’s tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move, To live with thee and be thy love.
An den Wassern
This is a setting of Psalm 137, sung in German, with taken from the 1984 revision of the Luther Bibel.
Scored for SATB Choir, Organ and Percussion, it was originally written as a composition competition entry.
1. An den Wassern zu Babel saßen wir und weinten, wenn wir an Zion gedachten. 2. Unsere Harfen hängten wir an die Weiden dort im Lande. 3. Denn die uns gefangen hielten, hießen uns dort singen und in unserm Heulen fröhlich sein: "Singet uns ein Lied von Zion!" 4. Wie könnten wir des HERRN Lied singen in fremdem Lande? 5. Vergesse ich dich, Jerusalem,so verdorre meine Rechte. 6. Meine Zunge soll an meinem Gaumen kleben, wenn ich deiner nicht gedenke, wenn ich nicht lasse Jerusalem meine höchste Freude sein. 7. HERR, vergiß den Söhnen Edom nicht, was sie sagten am Tage Jerusalems\: "Reißt nieder, reißt nieder bis auf den Grund!" 8. Tochter Babel, du Verwüsterin, wohl dem, der dir vergilt, was du uns angetan hast! 9. Wohl dem, der deine jungen Kinder nimmtund sie am Felsen zerschmettert!
Kubla Khan
A setting of the by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, for solo voice and orchestra. The original conception of the piece called for a tenor soloist, but it is also suitable for soprano (sung an octave higher).
In the recording featured here Canadian mezzo-soprano Jennifer McKillop sings the vocal line.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced; Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves: Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 't would win me That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Live with me and be my love - SATB Choir mix
A setting for choir and piano of a by William Shakespeare - one of his "Sonnets to Sundry Notes of Music".
As listeners may realise this recording was produced totally in the digital domain, with the virtual choir courtesy of the "Symphonic Choirs" sampling software from East West Sounds. This was a first attempt at using it.
LIVE with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, And all the craggy mountains yields.
There will we sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, by whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals.
There will I make thee a bed of roses, With a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider’d all with leaves of myrtle.
A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs; And if these pleasures may thee move, Then live with me and be my love.
LOVE’S ANSWER If that the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd’s tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move, To live with thee and be thy love.
Song Cycle: Poems of John McCrae
Settings of by Canadian poet John McCrae, scored for solo voice (soprano in the manuscript) and piano. In this the first set of six songs the poet's main preoccupation is with mortality and death.
The Raven is a setting of the narrative by American writer Edgar Allan Poe, for a large choir and full orchestra. First published in January 1845, the poem is often noted for its musicality, stylized language, and supernatural atmosphere.
Wikipedia sums up the poem as follows: It tells of a talking raven's mysterious visit to a distraught lover, tracing the man's slow fall into madness. The lover, often identified as being a student, is lamenting the loss of his love, Lenore. Sitting on a bust of Pallas, the raven seems to further distress the protagonist with its constant repetition of the word "Nevermore". The poem makes use of folk, mythological, religious, and classical references.
Poe claimed to have written the poem logically and methodically, intending to create a poem that would appeal to both critical and popular tastes, as he explained in his 1846 follow-up essay, "The Philosophy of Composition". The poem was inspired in part by a talking raven in the novel Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty by Charles Dickens. Poe borrows the complex rhythm and meter of Elizabeth Barrett's poem "Lady Geraldine's Courtship", and makes use of internal rhyme as well as alliteration throughout.
The Raven Edgar Allan Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore — While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “’Tis some visiter,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door — Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating “?’Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door — Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door; — This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you” — here I opened wide the door; —— Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!” — Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore — Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;— ‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door — Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door — Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore — Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door — Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered — not a feather then he fluttered — Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before — On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.” Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, “Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore — Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of ‘Never — nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er, But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee Respite — respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! — Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore — Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting — “Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted — nevermore!
Voyelles
A setting for choir and string orchestra of the by 19th-century French poet Arthur Rimbaud.
Written in 1871, the poem is seemingly synaesthetic, drawing correspondences between vowels and colours. However, the arbitrariness of these correspondences, and Rimbaud's own admission that they were simply inventions, suggests the poem might have been written tongue-in-cheek.
True or not, the music picks up on this possibility, supporting the fun with its cloyingly programmatic style.
A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu: voyelles, Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes: A, noir corset velu des mouches éclatantes Qui bombinent autour des puanteurs cruelles, Golfes d'ombre; E, candeur des vapeurs et de tentes, Lances des glaciers fiers, rois blancs, frissons d'ombelles; I, pourpres, sang craché, rire des lèvres belles Dans la colère ou les ivresses pénitentes; U, cycles, vibrements divins des mers virides, Paix des pâtis semés d'animaux, paix des rides Que l'alchimie imprime aux grands fronts studieux; O, suprême Clairon plein des strideurs étranges, Silence traversés des Mondes et des Anges: - O l'Oméga, rayon violet de Ses Yeux!
