Tanglewopd Thursday, August 5, at 8:30 THOMAS HAMPSON, baritone CRAIG RUTENBERG, piano JAY UNGAR TRIO Jay Ungar, violin, mandolin Molly Mason, guitar, bass, vocal harmony David Alpher, piano AN EVENING OF AMERICAN SONG Song Texts ? -Ui-''- ^B^x' ''V. V t The audience is politely requested to withhold applause until '" 9l^^ ^ after each group of songs. ^Bi* ti/'^t *>\ ^jy ^B(f ' »' ' Richard Cory Whenever Richard Cory went down town, We people on the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown. Clean favored and imperially slim. And he was always quietly arrayed. And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, "Good morning,' And he glittered when he walked. And he ws rich, yes richer than a king. And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everything ^ To make us wish we were in his place. So on we worked, and waited for the light. And went without the meat and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head. —Edwin Arlington Robinson Miniver Cheevy Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn. Grew lean when he assailed the seasons; He wept that he was ever born. And he had reasons. Miniver loved the days of old When swords were bright and steeds were prancing; The vision of a warrior bold Would set him dancing. Please turn the page quietly. — — —— Miniver sighed for what was not, And dreamed, and rested from his labors; He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot, And Priam's neighbors. Miniver mourned the ripe renown That made so many a name so fragrant; He mourned Romance, now on the town, And Art, a vagrant. Miniver loved the Medici, Albeit he had never seen one; He would have sinned incessantly Could he have been one. Miniver cursed the commonplace And eyed a khaki suit with loathing; He missed the mediaeval grace Of iron clothing. Miniver scorned the gold he sought, But sore annoyed was he without it; Miniver thought, and thought, and thought, And thought about it. Minvier Cheevy, born too late, Scratched his head and kept on thinking: Miniver coughed, and called it fate. And kept on drinking. —Robinson Luke Havergal Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal, Out of a grave I come to tell you this, There where the vines cling crimson on the wall, Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss And in the twilight wait for what will come. That flames upon your forehead with a glow The leaves will whisper there of her, and some. That blinds you to the way that you must go. Like flying words, will strike you as they fall; Yes, there is yet one way to where she is. But go, and if you listen she will call. Bitter, but one that faith may never miss. Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal Out of a grave I come to tell you this Luke Havergal. To tell you this. There is the western gate, Luke Havergal, (verse 2 omitted in song:) There are the crimson leaves upon the wall. No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies Go, for the winds are tearing them away, To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes; Nor think to riddle the dead words they say, But there, where western glooms are gathering. (Nor any more tofeel them as theyfall;) (omitted) The dark will end the dark, if anything: But go, and if you trust her she will call. God slays Himself with every leaf that flies. There is the western gate, Luke Havergal And hell is more than half of paradise. Luke Havergal. No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies —Robinson In eastern skies. End of first group. Look Down Fair Moon Look down fair moon and bathe this scene, Pour softly down night's nimbus floods on faces ghastly, swollen, purple, On the dead on the their backs with arms toss'd wide. Pour down your unstinted nimbus sacred moon. — Walt Whitman Memories of Lincoln Beat! beat drums! Beat! beat! drums! Blow, bugles blow! Blow, bugles blow! Thro' the windows—thro' the doors—burst like a ruthless force, Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation, Blow, bugles blow! Beat! Beat! drums! Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in houses? No sleepers must sleep in the beds, You bugles wilder blow! — Blow, bugles blow! When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd, And the great star early drooped in the western sky in the night, I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. - 1 Ever-returning spring— trinity sure, trinity sure to me you bring. Lilacs blooming perennial and dropping star in the west. And thoughts of him I love. O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered ev'ry rack, the prize we sought is won. But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red. Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. —Whitman To What You Said To what you said, passionately clasping my hand, this is my answer: Though you have strayed hither, for my sake, you can never belong to me, nor I to you, Behold the customary loves and friendships—the cold guards I am that rough and simple person I am he who kisses his comrade lightly on the lips at parting, and I am one who is kissed in return, I introduce that new American salute Behold love choked, correct, polite, always suspicious Behold the received models of the parlors—What are they to me? What to these young men that travel with me? —Whitman End of second group. The Housatonic at Stockbridge Contented river! in thy dreamy realm The cloudy willow and the plumy elm: Thou beautiful! from every hill What eye but wanders with thee at thy will. Contented river! and yet overshy To mask thy beauty from the eager eye; Hast thou a thought to hide from field and town? In some deep current of sunlit brown. Ah! there's a restive ripple, And the swift red leaves, September's firstlings faster drift; Wouldst thou away, dear stream? Come, whisper, near! I also of much resting have a fear: Let me tomorrow thy companion be. By fall and shallow to the adventurous sea! —Robert UnderwoodJohnson Thoreau He grew in those seasons like corn in the night, rapt in revery, on the Walden shore, amidst the sumach pines and hickories, in undistubed solitude. —after Thoreau, "Walden" Walt Whitman Who goes there? Hankering, gross, mystical and nude; How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat? What is man anyhow? What am I? What are you? All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own; Else it were time lost a-listening to me. —after Whitman, "Leaves of Grass" Duty A So nigh is grandeur to our dust. So near is God to man; When Duty whispers low "Thou must," Duty B (Vita) The youth replies "I can!" Nascentes morimur finisque, —Ralph Waldo Emerson finisque, ab origine pendet. [That which is born ends by dying, The end is determined by the beginning.] —Manlius The Children's Hour Between the dark and the daylight, From my study I see in the lamplight When the night is beginning to lower, Descending the broad hall stair, Comes a pause in the day's occupations. Grave Alice and laughing AUegra That is known as Children's Hour. And Edith with golden hair. I hear in the chamber above me Between the dark and daylight, The patter of little feet Comes a pause, The sound of a door that is opened That is known as Children's Hour. voices soft and sweet. And —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Memories A—Very Pleasant We're sitting in the opera house, the opera house, the opera house; We're waiting for the curtain to arise with wonders for our eyes; We're feeling pretty gay, and well we may; "O Jimmy, look! "I say, "The band is tuning up and soon will start to play." We whistle and we hum, beat time with the drum. We're sitting in the opera house, the opera house, the opera house, ^;'A' a-waiting for the curtain to rise with wonders for our eyes, a feeling of expectancy, a certain kind of ecstasy. Sh! Curtain! Memories B— Rather Sad From the street a strain on my ear doth fall. A tune as threadbare as that "old red shawl," It is tattered, it is torn, it shows signs of being worn, It's the tune my Uncle hummed from early morn; 'Twas a common little thing and kind'a sweet, But 'twas sad and seemed to slow up both his feet; lean see him shuffling down to the barn or to the town, a-humming. —Charles Ives Canon Oh, the days are gone When beauty bright My heart's chain wove; When my dream of life. From morn till night was love, Still love, was still love. Oh! the days are gone When beauty bright, When my dream of life. From morn till night was love. Still love, from morn till night. My dream of life was love. —Thomas Moore Intermission — Thefollowing textsfrom which the performance selections will he made appear in alphabetical order: SONGS BY THOMAS MOORE (Texts by Moore) Fill the Bumper Fair Fill the bumper fair! Ev'ry drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of care, Smooth away a wrinkle.