selected songs by Ethelbert Nevin
Ethelbert Nevin (1862-1901)
Good-night, good-night, beloved! I come to watch o'er thee.
To be near thee, to be near thee, alone is peace for me.
Good-night, good-night, beloved! I come to watch o'er thee.
To be near thee, to be near thee, alone is peace for me.
Good night.
Thine eyes are stars of morning, thy lips are crimson flowers,
Good-night! Good-night, beloved, while I count the weary hours.
Thine eyes are stars of morning, thy lips are crimson flowers,
Good-night! Good-night, beloved, while I count the weary hours.
Good night.
Margaret Deland
Deep in a rose's glowing heart, I dropped a single kiss;
And then I bade it quick depart, and tell my lady this:
"The love thy lover tries to send, o'erflows my fragrant bowl;
"But my soft leaves would break and bend, should he send half the whole,
"Should he send half the whole."
Heine
Oh fair and sweet and holy, as bud at morning tide
I gaze on thee, and yearnings, sad thro' my bosom glide.
I feel that fain I'd be laying, my hand upon thy hair,
Praying that God, aye, would keep thee, as holy, sweet, and fair,
As holy, sweet, and fair.
1902 arrangement by Max Spicker
Kingsley
Oh! that we two were Maying,
Down the stream of the soft spring breeze;
Like children with violets playing
In the shade of the whisp'ring trees.
Oh! that we two sat dreaming
On the sward of the sheep-trimm'd down,
Watching the white mist streaming
O'er river, and mead, and town.
Oh! that we two lay sleeping,
In our nest in the churchyard sod,
With our limbs at rest on the quiet earth's breast,
And our souls at home with God.
Goethe
One spring morning, bright and fair, tra - la - la - la - la - la - la.
Roam'd a shepherdess and sang, tra - la - la - la - la - la - la.
Young and beauteous, free from care,
Thro' the fields her clear notes rang:
Tra - la - la - la - la, tra - la - la - la - la - la,
Tra - la - la - la - la - la, tra - la - la - la - la - la - la - la,
Tra - la - la - la - la - la, tra - la - la - la - la - la,
Tra - la - la - la - la - la - la.
Of his lambs some two or three, tra - la - la - la - la - la - la.
Thyrsis offer'd for a kiss, tra - la - la - la - la - la - la.
First she eyed him roguishly,
Then for answer sang but this:
Tra - la - la - la - la - la, tra - la - la - la - la - la,
Tra - la - la - la - la - la, tra - la - la - la - la - la - la - la,
Tra - la - la - la - la - la, tra - la - la - la - la - la,
Tra - la - la - la - la - la - la.
Ribbons did the next one offer,
And a third his heart so true,
But, as with the lambs, the scoffer,
Laughed at hearts and ribbons too.
Still 'twas tra - la - la - la - la - la, tra - la - la - la - la - la,
Tra - la - la - la - la - la, tra - la - la - la - la - la - la - la,
Tra - la - la - la - la - la - la, tra - la - la - la - la - la,
Tra - la - la - la - la - la - la.
V. Hugo
What care I, unwilling, when forest birds I hear?
'Tis the tend'rest bird thrilling in thy voice so clear.
What though God unveils me all stars in the skies!
'Tis the purest star hails me, sparkling in thine eyes.
Though April's gardenbowers to blossom will start,
The loveliest of flowers springs up in thy heart.
This songbird so glowing, this daystar above,
This soul-flower blowing, we name it, 'tis love.
Margaret Deland
From up above my raft drifts down to you! to you!
And oh! my love, your sweetheart brown is true! is true!
No girl's so sweet up in the pine as you! as you!
Say, when you meet this raft of mine, I'm true! I'm true!
From up above my raft drifts down to you! to you!
And oh! my love, your sweetheart brown is true! is true!
E. Pailleron
translated from the French by James Freeman Clark
'Twas April; 'twas Sunday; the day was fair,
Yes, sunny and fair. And how happy was I!
You wore the white dress you lov'd to wear,
And two little flow'rs were hid in your hair,
Yes, in your hair, on that day, gone by.
We sat on the moss; it was shady and dry,
Yes, shady and dry; we sat in the shadow,
We looked at the leaves, we looked at the sky,
We looked at the brook which bubbled near by,
Yes, bubbled near by, through the quiet meadow.
A bird sang on the swinging vine,
Yes, on the vine, and then sang not;
I took your little white hand in mine;
'Twas April; 'twas Sunday; 'twas warm sunshine,
Yes, warm sunshine; have you forgot!
"Jesu, Jesu, miserere; hear my cry to Thee."
Come, thou fainting one and weary, come to Me.
"Sin and shame my heart benumbing, shall I gain Thy feet?"
Shrinking, trembling, hardly coming, thee I meet.
"Jesu, Jesu, miserere; save me or I die."
Hearken in the darkness dreary, it is I.
"Jesu, Jesu, miserere; hush my soul's unrest."
Lay thee, travelworn and weary, on My breast.
"Jesus, come, come quickly to me, only make me Thine."
I am here; thy anguish drew Me, thou art mine.
Victor Hugo
If a lovely lawn there be dewed with diamond showers,
Where the gen'rous year, in fee, scatters dainty dowers:
Lilies, jasmine, columbine, there in rich abundance shine!
Fit for gentle feet like thine is that path of flowers!
If there be a loving heart filled with glorious powers,
Whose devotion, set apart, smiles though Fortune lowers;
If for this noble breast yearns for the highest, best,
On this heart thy brow should rest wreathed with loveliest flowers.
If there be Love's dearest dream sweet with breath of flow'rs,
Where each new day it should seem brighter 'neath those bowers:
A dream God himself hath blest, where soul to soul is confest:
Ah! there I'd build a nest for thy heart's sweetest hours.
Peyton Van Rensselaer
The roses of yesteryear, were all of them white and red;
It fills my heart with silent fear, to find all their beauty fled.
The roses of white are sere, all faded the roses red,
And one who loves me is not here, and one that I love is dead,
And one who loves me is not here, and one that I love is dead.
Tennyson
Beat upon mine little heart, beat, beat;
Beat upon mine, you are mine, my sweet;
All mine from your pretty blue eyes to your feet, my sweet:
Sleep, little blossom, my honey, my bliss,
For I give you this, and I give you this,
And I blind your pretty blue eyes with a kiss, sleep!
Father and Mother will watch you grow,
And gather the roses where ever they blow,
And find the white heather where ever you go, my sweet, my sweet.
Eugene Field
The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and staunch he stands;
The little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket moulds in his hands.
Time was when the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair;
And that was the time when our little Boy Blue
Kiss'd them, and put them there.
"Now don't you go till I come!" he said,
"And don't you make any noise,"
So toddling off to his trundle bed,
He dreamt of the pretty toys.
And as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our little Boy Blue.
Oh! the years are many, the years are long,
But our little toy friends are true.
Ay! faithful to little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place,
Awaiting the touch of the little hand,
The smile of a little face.
And they wonder as waiting these long years through,
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our little Boy Blue,
Since he kiss'd them, and put them there.
Alfred de Musset
Recall our love, when the shy dawn unfoldeth,
All th' enchanted palace of the morning sun;
Recall our love, when dreamy night beholdeth,
Veiled trains of stars, silv'ry stars pass one by one.
When wild your bosom thrills aroused by coming pleasure,
Or when the shades of night lull you in dreamland's measure,
Then hear among the trees murmurings of a breeze:
Recall our love, recall our love.
Recall our love, when we are separated
To meet again apart forevermore,
When by the grief of exile overmated
The soul is bowed that was so firm before.
Remember our sad love, remember how we parted;
Time, absence, grief are naught for him who loves full-hearted;
So long as this heart beat, it always will repeat:
Recall our love!
Recall our love, when under earth reposes
This heart, at last to sleep in peace for aye;
Recall our love, when on my grave the roses
Send fragrance forth, their first welcome to May.
I shall not see you then, but my immortal spirit
Will hover near you, love; then may you often hear it,
Amid the night's weird cries a voice that faintly sighs:
Recall our love!
Julius Wolff
From the branch, as farewell token,
Did I pluck this rose;
Whispered words to be unspoken,
Till the bud unclose.
Deep within its petals hidden,
Lies a secret furled,
All the tiny leaves unbidden,
Shield it from the world.
Kiss the flower with fragrance laden,
All its wealth unfold,
Till it tell the secret, maiden,
That my kisses told.
Let me part without a greeting,
Silenced by my pain,
While the roses are repeating:
May we meet again, may we meet again.
Sully-Prudhomme
The vase wherein this vervain faded,
Was but lightly jarred by a fan;
The seam can scarce be traced, unaided,
We know not where it first began.
But a faint blow was barely needed,
The crystal sprang with scarce a sound;
Now the veined fissure, unheeded,
Its path, slowly, has marched around.
The plant has drooped, the leaves are dreaming,
In sapless slumber ne'er to wake;
Its life has ebbed beyond redeeming,
Touch not the vase or it will break.
Thus often can a heart be broken
By some light touch meant for caress;
Some small word better left unspoken,
The blossoms of its love grow less.
Bravely concealed before a stranger,
Endured in silence for his sake;
The rift widens, heed well the danger,
Touch not the vase or it will break!
A fair good morn to thee, my love,
A fair good morn to thee;
And happy be thy path, my love,
Though it end not with me,
Though it end not with me.
No vows were ever spoken,
We've no farewell to say:
Gay were we when we met, love,
We're parting just as gay,
We're parting just as gay.
So fare thee well, awhile, my love,
So fare thee well, awhile,
We have no parting sign to give,
So part we with a smile,
So part we with a smile.
Rev. Chas. Kingsley
Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh, the pleasant sight to see
Shires and towns from Airly Beacon,
While my love climbed up to me!
Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh, the happy hours we lay
Deep in fern on Airly Beacon,
Courting through the summer's day!
Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
Oh, the weary haunt for me,
All alone on Airly Beacon,
With his baby on my knee.
T. B. Aldrich
Up to her chamber window a slight wire-trellis goes:
And up this Romeo's ladder clambers a bold white rose.
I lounge in the ilex shadows, I see my lady lean
Unclasping her silken girdle, the curtain folds between.
She smiles at her white rose lover, she reaches out her hand
And helps him in at the window; I see it where I stand.
To her red, red lip she holds him, and kisses him many a time:
Ah! me! 'twas he that won her, because he dared to climb!
Anna Reeve Aldrich
When the land was white with moonlight,
And the air was sweet with May,
I was so glad that Love would last
Forever and a day,
When the land was white with moonlight,
And the air was sweet with May.
Now the land is white with winter
And the dead Love laid away,
I am so glad Life cannot last
Forever and a day.
English version by Dr. Th. Baker
Our life is vain: an hour of joy,
An hour of pain, and then, goodbye!
Our life is vain: an hour of joy,
An hour of pain, and then, goodbye, goodbye!
Our life's a dream: a ray of light,
Of hope a gleam, and then goodnight!
Our life's a dream: a ray of light,
Of hope a gleam, and then goodnight!
Rev. Chas. Kingsley
The merry, merry lark was up and singing,
The hare was out and feeding on the lea;
The merry, merry bells below were ringing,
As my child's laugh rang through me.
Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snowyard,
And the lark beside the dreary winter sea,
And my baby in his cradle in the churchyard,
Waiteth there until the bells bring me.
Robert Browning
The year's at the Spring, the day's at the morn,
Morning's at sev'n, the hillside's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing, the snail's on the thorn:
God's in His heav'n, God's in His heav'n:
The year's at the Spring, the day's at the morn,
Morning's at sev'n, the hillside's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing, the snail's on the thorn:
God's in His heav'n, God's in His heav'n,
God's in His heav'n, all's right with the world!
James Whitcomb Riley
There, little girl, don't cry!
They have broken your doll, I know,
And your teaset blue, and your playhouse too,
Are things of the long ago.
But childish troubles will soon pass by,
There, little one, don't cry, don't cry, don't cry!
There, little girl, don't cry!
They have broken your slate, I know,
And the glad wild ways of your schoolgirl days,
Are things of the long ago.
But life and love will soon come by,
There, little girl, don't cry, don't cry, don't cry!
There, little girl, don't cry!
They have broken your heart, I know,
And the rainbow gleams of your youthful dreams,
Are things of the long ago.
But Heav'n holds all for which you sigh,
There, little girl, don't cry, don't cry, don't cry!
Richard Hovey
My love's waitin', waitin' by the river, waitin' till I come along!
Wait there, child; I'm comin', comin', wait there, child; I'm comin'.
Jaybird tol' me, tol' me in the mornin', tol' me she'd be there tonight.
Wait there child; I'm comin', comin', wait there, child; I'm comin'.
Whippowill tol' me, tol' me in the evenin', down, where the cattails grow,
Wait there, child; I'm comin', comin', wait there, child; I'm comin'.
Robert Cameron Rogers
The hours I spent with thee, dear heart,
Are as a string of pearls to me;
I count them over ev'ry one apart,
My rosary, my rosary!
Each hour a pearl, each pearl a pray'r
To still a heart in absence wrung:
I tell each bead unto the end, And there
A cross is hung!
O memories that bless and burn!
O barren gain and bitter loss!
I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn
To kiss the cross, sweetheart! To kiss the cross.
Frank L. Stanton
No rubies of red for my lady,
No jewel that glitters and charms,
But the light of the skies, in a little one's eyes,
And a necklace of two little arms.
Of two little arms that are clinging
(Oh ne'er was a necklace like this!),
And the wealth o' the world, and love's sweetness impearled,
In the joy of a little one's kiss.
A necklace of love for my lady,
That was linked by the angels above.
No other but this and a tender, sweet kiss
That sealeth a little one's love.
Alvin Hovey King
I sing to my love, the rose, with all my soul and heart,
For there's naught so sweet in all the world, as to love, to love, to love.
I sing to my love, the rose, and the rose sings back to me,
The sweetest song that e'er will be: "For I love, I love, I love."
I sing to my love, the rose, as I gaze in her deep red heart,
For her heart is free for all to see, with its love, its love, its love.
I sing to my love, the rose, with love for the theme of my song,
For I love the rose and the rose loves me, so we love, we love, we love.
I sing to my love, the rose, with all my soul and heart,
For there's naught so sweet in all the world, as to love, to love, to love.
I sing to my love, the rose, and the rose sings back to me,
The sweetest song that e'er will be: "For I love, I love, I love."
Frank L. Stanton
Sweetest li'l' feller, ev'rybody knows;
Dunno what to call him, but he mighty lak' a rose!
Lookin' at his Mammy wid eyes so shiny blue,
Mek' you think that heav'n is comin' clost ter you!
W'en he's dar a sleepin', in his li'l' place,
Think I see de angels lookin' thro' de lace,
W'en de dark is fallin', w'en de shadders creep,
Den dey comes on tiptoe ter kiss 'im in his sleep.
Sweetest li'l' feller, ev'rybody knows;
Dunno what to call him, but he mighty lak' a rose!
Lookin' at his Mammy wid eyes so shiny blue,
Mek' you think that heav'n is comin' clost ter you!
Edward Teschemacher
Little stars in heav'n so bright,
Peeping through the clouds of white,
Angels fair in heav'n above, look down, look down,
Look down tenderly with your love,
And hush to sleep this tired child tonight.
Angels, who keep watch on high,
Guard my child while dark hours fly,
Lead him into dreamland!
There what lovely toys they bring him,
There what wondrous songs they sing him,
Ev'ry joy his heart would know,
Angels with their love bestow.
Hark! I can hear the sound of beautiful chariots going,
Of golden chariots far away,
Oh, haste to their silverhorns blowing,
Oh! haste to their silverhorns glowing.
See, how those fairy elves their pretty rose cups are quaffing!
Oh, drink my child that nectar sweet,
And join in their singing, and laughing,
And join in their singing and laughing!
Rest, my child, the morn looks down,
Now through thy window, over the town,
Close thy weary eyes in sleep, sweet sleep, sweet sleep,
I shall be near thee till morning glows,
So sleep and dream in blest repose.
"Slumber Song" is based on the music of Ethelbert Nevin's 1890 piano
piece "Slumber Song".
Narcissus (1891, 1899, 1919)
arranged by John Martel
P. C. Warren
My garden lies slumb'ring in sunny calm of noon,
The fountains sing faintly their cool and soothing croon.
Soft breezes are kissing each flower's perfum'd lips,
While from a lily's chalice a butterfly drowsily sips.
A flood of fragrance rises around me,
And drowns my senses, lost in dream.
Breath of the rose, breath of the lilac
Mingle, and mount on the vibrant air;
Yet in the balmy current,
Born on the wings of Zephyr,
A scent, more witching than all the rest,
Wakes tender memories in my breast:
'Tis Narcissus!
Dear, snow-petal'd blossom, with heart of blood and gold,
Your perfume calls up visions of raptures untold.
I seem to dream of melodies wafting by,
That sob and throb, resembling a trembling sigh,
I hear a clear, sweet note afloat,
Reechoing love songs of old!
from Contemporary American Composers (1900) by Rupert Hughes
Nevin was born in 1862, at Vineacre, on the banks of the Ohio, a few miles from Pittsburgh. There
he spent the first sixteen years of his life, and received all his schooling, most of it from his father,
Robert P. Nevin, editor and proprietor of a Pittsburgh newspaper, and a contributor to many
magazines. It is interesting to note that he also composed several campaign songs, among them
the popular "Our Nominee," used in the day of James K. Polk's candidacy. The first grand piano
ever taken across the Allegheny Mountains was carted over for Nevin's mother.
From his earliest infancy Nevin was musically inclined, and, at the age of four, was often taken
from his cradle to play for admiring visitors. To make up for the deficiency of his little legs, he used
to pile cushions on the pedals so that he might manipulate them from afar.
Nevin's father provided for his son both vocal and instrumental instruction, even taking him abroad
for two years of travel and music study in Dresden under Von Böhme. Later he studied the piano
for two years at Boston, under B. J. Lang, and composition under Stephen A. Emery, whose little
primer on harmony has been to American music almost what Webster's spelling-book was to our
letters.
At the end of two years he went to Pittsburgh, where he gave lessons, and saved money enough
to take him to Berlin. There he spent the years 1884, 1885, and 1886, placing himself in the hands
of Karl Klindworth. Of him Nevin says: "To Herr Klindworth I owe everything that has come to me
in my musical life. He was a devoted teacher, and his patience was tireless. His endeavor was not
only to develop the student from a musical standpoint, but to enlarge his soul in every way. To do
this, he tried to teach one to appreciate and to feel the influence of such great minds of literature
as Goethe, Schiller, and Shakespeare. He used to insist that a man does not become a musician
by practising so many hours a day at the piano, but by absorbing an influence from all the arts and
all the interests of life, from architecture, painting, and even politics."
The effect of such broad training—enjoyed rarely enough by music students—is very evident in
Nevin's compositions. They are never narrow or provincial. They are the outpourings of a soul that
is not only intense in its activities, but is refined and cultivated in its expressions. This effect is
seen, too, in the poems Nevin chooses to set to music,—they are almost without exception verses
of literary finish and value. His cosmopolitanism is also remarkable, his songs in French, German,
and Italian having no trace of Yankee accent and a great fidelity to their several races.
In 1885, Hans von Bülow incorporated the best four pupils of his friend, Klindworth, into an artist
class, which he drilled personally. Nevin was one of the honored four, and appeared at the unique
public Zuhören of that year, devoted exclusively to the works of Brahms, Liszt, and Raff. Among the
forty or fifty studious listeners at these recitals, Frau Cosima Wagner, the violinist Joachim, and
many other celebrities were frequently present.
Nevin returned to America in 1887, and took up his residence in Boston, where he taught and
played at occasional concerts.
Eighteen hundred and ninety-two found him in Paris, where he taught, winning more pupils than
here. He was especially happy in imparting to singers the proper Auffassung (grasp, interpretation,
finish) of songs, and coached many American and French artists for the operatic stage. In 1893 the
restless troubadour moved on to Berlin, where he devoted himself so ardently to composition that
his health collapsed, and he was exiled a year to Algiers. The early months of 1895 he spent in
concert tours through this country. As Klindworth said of him, "he has a touch that brings tears,"
and it is in interpretation rather than in bravura that he excels. He plays with that unusual
combination of elegance and fervor that so individualizes his composition.
Desirous of finding solitude and atmosphere for composition, he took up his residence in Florence,
where he composed his suite, "May in Tuscany" (op. 21). The "Arlecchino" of this work has much
sprightliness, and shows the influence of Schumann, who made the harlequin particularly his own;
but there is none of Chopin's nocturnity in the "Notturno," which presents the sussurus and the
moonlit, amorous company of "Boccaccio's Villa." The suite includes a "Misericordia" depicting a
midnight cortège along the Arno, and modelled on Chopin's funeral march in structure with its
hoarse dirge and its rich cantilena. The best number of the suite is surely the "Rusignuolo," an
exceedingly fluty bird-song. From Florence, Nevin went to Venice, where he lived in an old casa on
the Grand Canal, opposite the Browning palazzo, and near the house where Wagner wrote "Tristan
und Isolde." One day his man, Guido, took a day off, and brought to Venice an Italian sweetheart,
who had lived a few miles from the old dream-city and had never visited it. The day these two
spent gondoliering through the waterways, where romance hides in every nook, is imaginatively
narrated in tone in Nevin's suite, "Un Giorno in Venezia," a book more handsomely published even
than the others of his works, which have been among the earliest to throw off the disgraceful
weeds of type and design formerly worn by native compositions.
The Venetian suite gains a distinctly Italian color from its ingenuously sweet harmonies in thirds
and sixths, and its frankly lyric nature, and "The Day in Venice" begins logically with the dawn,
which is ushered in with pink and stealthy harmonies, then "The Gondoliers" have a morning mood
of gaiety that makes a charming composition. There is a "Canzone Amorosa" of deep fervor, with
interjections of "Io t'amo!" and "Amore" (which has the excellent authority of Beethoven's Sonata,
op. 81, with its "Lebe wohl"). The suite ends deliciously with a night scene in Venice, beginning
with a choral "Ave Maria," and ending with a campanella of the utmost delicacy.
After a year in Venice Nevin made Paris his home for a year, returning to America then, where he
has since remained.
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