JACK BEESON Born in 1921 in Muncie, Indiana (soon to become known as the typical American

city, Middletown), Mr. Beeson was no typical Hoosier. As is often the case with over- achievers, he was often ill as a child. Nevertheless, he studied piano energetically, and clarinet, xylophone, theory, and music history on the side. While writing an abortive mystery novel, he was seduced by the Metropolitan Opera broadcasts into deciding to become an opera composer and then wrote three libretti, sketching some of the music.

After five years at the Eastman School of Music and a year of study with BBla Bart6k (1944-45) he served an apprenticeship as coach and conductor in the Columbia University Opera Workshop and its series of American opera premieres. After a half century of teaching at Columbia he is presently MacDowell Professor Emeritus of Music.

Maintaining his early interest in setting words to music, he has composed ten operas, four of them to his own libretti. He has also written much solo vocal and choral music, as well as a respectable number of orchestral and chamber works.

The recipient of numerous commissions and awards, he has long served his fellow American composers on the boards and juries of music organizations such as the Ditson Fund, Columbia University Press, NEA, CRI, ASCAP, and the American Academy of Arts and Letters.

COMPOSER'S NOTES This selection of twenty-six songs (and two arias from operas) comprises about a

third of my works for solo voice and piano and most of those written for soprano.* The poetry dates from the end of the sixteenth century to the late twentieth century and encompasses a wide variety of styles and subject-matter. In order to reflect this variety, the music ranges widely in style, from the simplicities of the Blake settings to the 12- tone serialism of Fire, Fire, Quench Desire. Hughes's black-magic Death by Owl-Eyes invokes a traversal of musical idioms from early Renaissance open fifths to some of the habits of the 1960's. The song is dedicated to Otto Luening, another 2oth century time- traveller.

As might be expected of a composer and librettist of operas, some of these songs- and many of those for other voices-suggest a dramatic context and the presence of another character listening. For the most part, the words are set exactly as written by the poet, but occasionally I exercise what may be called "musical license." Sung words in recital or in the theatre pass swiftly and cannot be pondered as can words on the page: it can be helpful to hearer and performer if the composer repeats a word or phrase for clarity or for emphasis.

It is often forgotten that a musical setting is, so to speak, an arrangement of a poem: it is the composer's interpretation of the words, made audible by means of his or her choice of pitch, tessitura, accentuation, and phrasing in the vocal line, and choice of style, mood, and implied action (if any) in the accompaniment. The line, 'To be or not to be, that is the question:" has been delivered in many ways over the centuries. Once set to music, the composer's reading of the line is fixed in all performances, for singers and pianists cannot stray far from the written notes.

- Jack Beeson

Copyright 1979 by Boosey and Hawkes, published in NINE SONGS AND ARIAS FOR SOPRANO AND PIANO, and reprinted by permission

* Boosey and H a w k has published four volumes of SONGS AND ARIAS, o w for each of the common voi&&m.

FIRE, FIRE, QUENCH DESIRE SONGS OF JACK BEESON

ANGELA BROWN, SOPRANO DIXIE ROSS NEILL, PIANO

THE POEMS

SIX LYRICS (1952, revised 1959 & 1995) Dream-Pedlary Thomas Lovell Beddoes (1803-1849) If there were dreams to sell, What would you buy? Some cost a passing bell; Some a light sigh, That shakes from Life's fresh cmwn Only a rose leaf down. If there were dreams to sell, Meny and sad to tell, And the crier rang the bell, What would you buy? A cottage lone and still, With bowers nigh, Shadowy, my woes to still Until I die. Such pearl from Life's fresh cmwn Fain would I shake me down.

Song Thomas Lovell Beddoes If thou wilt ease thine heart Of love and all its smart, Then sleep, dear, sleep: And not a sorrow Hang any tear on your eyelashes; Lie still and deep, Sad soul Until the sea-wave washes the rim Of the sun tomorrow in eastern sky. But wilt thou cure thine heart Of love and all its smart Then die, dear, die; 'Tis deeper, sweeter, Than on a mse-bank to lie dreaming with folded eye; And there alone, amid the beaming Of Love's stars, thou'lt meet her in eastern sky.

Were dreams to have at will, This would best heal my ill, This would I buy.

Who Sighs that All Dies? Herman Melville (181 9-91) Dies, all dies! The grass it dies, but in vernal rain Up it springs, and it lives again: Over and over, again and again, it lives, it dies, And it lives again, and over and over again, Who sighs that all dies? Summer and winter, pleasure and pain, Everything, everywhere in God's reign. They end, and anon they begin again: Wane and wax and wane: Over and over and over amain, End, ever end, and begin again.

The Moon Percy Bysshe Shelley (1 792-1822)

And, l i e a dying lady lean and pale, Who totters forth, wrapped in a gauzy veil, Out of her chamber, led by the insane And feeble wanderings of her fading brain, The moon arose up in the murky east A white and shapeless mass.

Time Jasper Mayne (1604-72) Time is the feathered thing, And, while I praise the sparklings of thy looks And call them rays, Takes wing, Leaving behind him as he flies An unperceivdd dimness in thine eyes. His minutes, while they're told, do make us old: And ev'ry sand of his fleet glass Increasing age as it doth pass, Insensibly sows wrinkles there Where flowers and roses do appear. Whilst we do speak, our fire Doth into ice expire, Flames turn to frost; And ere we can know how our crow NmS swan, Or how a silver snow Springs there where jet did grow--ere we can know- Our fading spring is in dull winter lost. Since then the Night hath hurled Darkness, Love's shade, Over its enemy the Day, and made The world just such a blind and shapeless thing As it was before light did from darkness spring- Since this be so- Let's number out the hours by blisses, And count the minutes by our kisses; Let the heavens new motions feel And by our embraces wheel; And whilst we try the way By which Love doth convey Soul unto soul, And mingling so Makes them such raptures know As makes them entrancd lie In mutual ecstasy, Let the harmonious spheres in music mll!

The Conclusion Sir Walter Raleigh (2552-1628) Even such is Time, that takes in trust Our youth, ourjoys, our all we have, And pays us but with earth and dust; Who in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days; But fmm this earth, this grave, this dust, My God shall raise me up, I mst.

Copyright 1995; reprinted with permission of Jack Beeson and Boosey and Hawkes, Inc.

TWO MILLAY SONNETS (1992) I Shall Forget You Presently Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950) I shall forget you presently, my dear, So make the most of this, your little day, Your little month, your little half a year, Ere I forget, or die, or move away, And we are done forever; by and by I shall forget you, as I said, but now, now, If you entreat me with your loveliest lie I will protest you with my favorite vow. I would indeed that love were longer-lived, And oaths were not so brittle as they are, But so it is, and nature has contrived To struggle on without a break thus far - Whether or not we find what we are seeking Is idle, biologically speaking.

What Lips My L i p Have Kissed

Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more.

Text reprinted by permission of the Estate of Edna St. Vincent Millay. Published in SONGS AND ARIAS FOR MEZZO SOPRANO AND PIANO by Boosey and Hawkes, copyright 1999, and reprinted by permission.

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh

FIVE SONGS (1946, revised 1951) poems by Francis Quarles (1592-1644) On A Spiritual Fever My soul hath had a fever a long while; Oh, I can neither relish nor digest; My nimble pulses beat, My veins do boil, I cannot close mine eyes, I cannot rest: Oh, for a surgeon to shike a vein. That, that would lay my heat and ease my pain: No, no, it is thy blood and not my own, Thy blood must cure me, Jesus, Or else none.

A G o d Night Close now thine eyes and rest secure; Thy soul is safe enough, thy body sure; He that loves thee, He that keeps and guards thee, Never slumbers, never sleeps. The smiling conscience in a sleeping breast Has only peace, Has only rest; The music and the mirth of kings Are all but discords when she sings; Then close thine eyes and rest secure; No sleep so sweet as thine, No rest so sure.

On the World The world's an inn and I her guest; I eat, I drink, I take my rest. My hostess nature does deny me nothing Wherewith she can supply me: The world's an inn, where having stayed a while, I pay her lavish bills and go my way.

Epigram Fear not, my soul, to lose for want of cunning; Weep not; heaven is not always got by ~ n n i n g ; Thy thoughts are swift, although thy legs be slow; True love will creep, not having strength to go.

On Death Why should we not as well desire death as sleep? No diff'rence but a little breath, Tis all but rest; Tis all but a releasing our tired limbs. Why not alike pleasing? Our sleep is oft' accompanied with frights, Distracting dreams and dangers of the night. When in the sheets of death our body's Sure from all such evils And we sleep secure. In sleep we know not whether our closed Eyes shall ever wake, from death We're sure to rise. Dare we trust God for nights and not for years?

Reprinted with the permission of Southern Music Publishing Co. Inc.,Copyright 1954.

MISCELLANEOUS SONGS Fire, Fire, Quench Desire (1959) George Peek (1556-96) Hot sun, cool fm, Tempered with sweet air, Black shade, fair nurse, Shadow my white hair: Shine, sun; bum, fire, Breathe, air, and ease me; Black shade, fair nurse, Shroud me, and please me: Shadow, my sweet nurse, Keep me from burning, Make not my glad cause Cause of my mourning. Let not my beauty's fire Inflame unstaid desire, Nor pierce any bright eye That wandereth lightly.

Copyright 1990 by Boosey and Hawkes, Inc. in NINE SONGS AND ARIAS FOR SOPRANO AND PIANO.

The You Should of Done It Blues (1971) Peter Kereck (1916-) I sit here with the wind is in my hair; I huddle like the sun is in my eyes; I am (I wish you'd contact me) alone. A fat lot you'd wear crepe. if I was dead. It figures, who I heard there when I phoned you; It figures, when I came there who has went. Dogs laugh at me, folks bark at me since then; "She is," they say, "no better than she ought to be:' I love you irregardless how they talk. You should of done it (which is no crime) With me you should of done it, what they say. I sit here with the wind is in my hair.

Text reprinted by permission of the copyright owner. Peter Viereck, 1967; Copyright 1973 by Boosey and Hawkes, published separately and in NINE SONGS AND ARIAS FOR SOPRANO AND PIANO.

Death by Owl-Eyes: a history of music in 64-odd measures (1971) Richard Hughes (1900-76) John Fane Dingle By Rumney Bmok Shot a crop-eared owl, For pigeon mistook: Caught her by the lax wing. She, as she dies, Thrills his warm soul through With her deep eyes. Corpse-eyes are eerie, Tiger-eyes fieme: John Fane Dingle found Owl-eyes worse. Owl-eyes on night-clouds, Constant as fate; Owl-eyes in baby's face: On dish and plate: Owl-eyes without sound- Pale of hue, John died, of no complaint, With owl-eyes too.

Text reprinted with the permission of R Ransom copyright 1922 by Richard Hughes. Copyright 1973 by Boosey and Hawks, pub- lished separately and in NINE SONGS AND ARIAS FOR SOPRANO AND PIANO, reprinted by permission.

Cat! (1979) John Keats (1795-1821) Cat! who hast past thy Grand Climacteric, How many mice and Rats hast in thy days Destroy'd? how many tit bits stolen? Gaze With those bright languid segments green and prick Those velvet ears-but pr'ythee do not stick Thy latent talons in me-and upraise Thy gentle mew-and tell me all thy frays Of Fish and Mice, and Rats and tender chick. Nay look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists For all the weezy Asthma--and for all Thy tail's tip is nicked off--and though the fists Of many a Maid have given thee many a maul, Still is that fur as soft as when the lists In youth thou enter'dst on glass bottled wall.

Published in NINE SONGS AND ARIAS FOR SOPRANO AND PIANO by Boosey and Hawkes, copyright 1990, and reprinted by permission.

Eldorado (1951) Edgar Allen Poe (1809-49) Gaily bedight, A gallant knight, In sunshine and in shadow, Had journeyed long, Singing a song, In search of Eldorado. But he grew old- This knight so bold- And o'er his heart a shadow Fell as he found No spot of ground That looked like Eldorado. And, as his strength Failed him, at length, He met a pilgrim shadow- "Shadow," said he, "Where can it be- This land of Eldorado?" "Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the shadow, Ride, boldly ride:' The shade replied, "If you seek for Eldorado!"

FROM A WATCHTOWER (1976) Mutability William Wordsworth (1770-1850) From low to high doth dissolution climb, And sink from high to low, along a scale Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail; A musical but melancholy chime, Which they can hear who meddle not with crime, Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear The longest date do melt like frosty rime, That in the morning whitened hill and plain And is no more; drop like the tower sublime Of yesterday, which royally did wear His crown of weeds, but could not ev'n sustain Some casual shout that broke the silent air, Or the unimaginable touch of Time.

Published by Galaxy Music Corp. in AMERICAN ART SONG ANTHOLOGI: Vol. I , copyright 1982, and reprinted by permission of Galaxy/E.C. Schinner:

Ballad: 0 What Is That Sound? Wystan Hugh Auden (1907-73) 0 what is that sound which so thrills the ear

Down in the valley drumming, drumming? Only the scarlet soldiers, dear,

The soldiers coming. 0 what is that light I see flashing so clear

Over the distance brightly, brightly? Only the sun on their weapons, dear, As they step lightly.

0 what are they doing with all that gear; What are they doing this morning, this morning?

Only the usual maneuvers, dear, Or perhaps a warning.

0 why have they left the road down there, Why are they suddenly wheeling, wheeling?

Perhaps a change in the orders, dear; Why are you kneeling?

0 haven't they stopped for the doctor's care, Haven't they reined their horses, their horses?

Why, they are none of them wounded, dear, None of those forces.

0 is it the parson they want, with white hair; Is it the parson, is it, is it?

No, they are passing his gateway, dear, Without a visit.

0 it must be the farmer who lives so near, It must be the farmer, so cunning, so cunning?

They have passed the farm already, dear, And now they are running.

0 where are you going? Stay with me here! Were the vows you swore me deceiving, deceiving?

No, I promised to love you, dear, But I must be leaving.

0 it's broken the lock and splintered the door, 0 it's the gate where they're turning, turning;

Their feet are heavy on the floor And their eyes are burning.

Poem reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd.

Heaven-Haven Gemrd Manley Hopkins (1844-89) I have desired to go

Where springs not fail, To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail

And a few lilies blow.

And I have asked to be Where no storms come,

Where the green swell is in the havens dumb, And out of the swing of the sea.

Ballad: 0 Where Are You Going? Wystan Hugh Auden "0 where are you going'!" said reader to rider, 'That valley is fatal when furnaces bum, Yonder's the midden whose odors will madden, That gap is the grave where the tall return." "0 do you imagine:' said fearer to farer, 'That dusk will delay on your path to the pass, Your diligent looking discover the lacking Your footsteps feel from granite to grass?" "0 what was that bird:' said horror to hearer, "Did you see that shape in the twisted trees? Behind you swiftly the figure comes softly, The spot on your skin is a shocking disease." "Out of the housese'-said rider to reader, "Yours never will"-said f a m to fearer. "They're looking for youw-said hearer to horror, As he left them there, as he left them there.

Poem reprinted by permission of Curtis Bmwn, Ltd

The L i n e r s Walter de la Mare (1873-1956) "Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller,

Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses

Of the forest's ferny floor: And a bud flew up out of a turret, Above the Traveller's head:

And he smote upon the door again a second time; "Is there anybody there?" he said.

But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill

Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still.

But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then

Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men:

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark That goes down to the empty hall,

Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call.

And he felt in his heart their smngeness, Their stillness answering his cry,

While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky;

For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:-

'Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word:' he said.

Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still 1 From the one man left awake:

Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirmp, And the sound of iron on stone,

And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.

stair,

louse

Angela Brown

Poem reprinted by permission of the Literary Trustees of Walter de la Mare and The Society of Authors as their representatives. FROM A WATCH- TOWER published by Boosey and Hawkes, copyright 1993, and reprinted by permission

THREE BLAKE SONGS (1945, revised 1951 and 1992) I Laid Me Down William Bhke (1757-1827) I laid me down upon a bank Where love lay sleeping. I heard among the rushes dank Weeping, Weeping. Then I went to the heath and the wild To the thistles and thorns of the waste And they told me how they were beguiled, Driven out, and compelled to be chaste.

Never Seek To Tell Never seek to tell thy love Love that never told can be; For the gentle wind does move Silently, invisibly. I told my love, I told my love, I told her all my heart, Trembling and cold, in ghastly fears - Ah, she doth depart. Soon as she was gone from me A traveller came by Silently, invisibly - Oh, was no deny.

I Asked A Thief I asked a thief to steal me a peach: He turned up his eyes. I asked a lithe lady to lie her down: Holy and meek she cries.

As soon as I went an angel came: He winked at the thief And smiled at the dame, And without one word spoke Had a peach from the tree, And 'twixt earnest and joke Enjoyed the Lady.

Reprinted with the permission of Jack Beeson and Bwsey and Hawkes. Inc.

TWO ARIAS (1967 and 1983) Margret's Garden Aria (lyric by Jack Beeson) from Liuie Borden (libretto by Kenward Elmslie, 1929-) In the garden the flowers wither and die. In the garden the towers of the house and the high wall Cast shadows at all hours; and nothing grows

in the darkness.

In the garden the stunted flowers lean toward the light. Their petals withering, Pale from the long night, Yearn for the bright air, the sun's caresses; For nothing lives in the darkness. Is it spring? Is it fall? The shadows lengthen, deepen, darken. In the garden the flowers by the sunless wall Find no light, no hope, no change of season. Is it spring? Is it summer? Is it winter? The seasons turn. The years grow older. We wait in the shadows. Time passes us by, passes us by. l ime passes us by.

Adaptation copyright 1967 by Boosey and Hawkes. published separately and in NINE SONGS AND ARIAS FOR SOPRANO AND PIANO. and reprinted by permission.

The Widow's Waltz from Dl: Heidegger's Fountain of Youth (libretto by Sheldon Harnick, 1924-) Yonder stands a cherry tree, Dmwsing 'neath a summer sky, Yielding ripe and tender fruit To each passerby. See the tree. in winter now As December's veil descends; 'Neath its load of ice and snow Each bare bough bends low. Not a summer tree. am I Yielding only in July, Nor a winter tree that stands With frozen heart and empty hands. Like an orchard I shall be. Such a love I bear thee, dear, Yielding love abundantly In every season of every year.

Jack Beeson

ANGELA BROWN Angela Brown has performed as soloist in opera, oratorio and recital in music rang-

ing from the baroque to the contemporary. Her special love is chamber music and the art song, and she has become known for her dedication to American classical song. As recitalist she has performed in a variety of venues, ranging from sophisticated concert halls in New York City, topalaui and chateaux in Italy and France, and to the more rus- tic churches and barns of northern New York State and Vermont. She has also been a featured artist on live radio broadcasts of Public Radio and WQXR in New York City.

In oratorio Miss Brown has appeared frequently as guest soloist with the Champlain Valley Oratorio Society and the Canterbury Choral Society in New York City. In opera she has performed with the Rossini Opera Festival in Pesaro, the Teatro Lirico Sperimentale of Spoleto, the Opera Ensemble of New York, the Pennsylvania Opera Festival, the Liederkranz Opera, the Eastern Opera Theatre, the Lake George Opera Festival, and the Vermont Mozart Festival. She has been the recipient of several grants and awards, most notably those of the Sullivan Foundation, the Liederkranz Foundation, the American Opera Auditions, the New York Singing Teachers Association, and the Concorso Internazionale Viotti.

Ms. Brown has served on the faculties of the Crane School of Music of the State University of New York at Potsdam and the Music Program of Plattsburgh SUNY. She and her husband, writer and artist Kellum Smith, are the founders and directors of Hill and Hollow Music, a nonprofit organization presenting professional classical chamber music in rural upstate New York. They live on a 375-acre stony hill-farm in the Adirondacks, that they are slowly rehabilitating after long years of neglect.

DIXIE ROSS-NEILL Dixie Ross-Neil1 brings years of experience as a coach and pedagogue to her posi-

tion as Director of Opera Studies at McGill University. Formerly on staff at the Metropolitan Opera in New York City, she has become a world-recognized authority on young artist training programs, having worked with such companies as the Houston Grand Opera and the Chicago Lyric Opera, and having served as ArtisticIMusical Director of the Young Artist Ensemble Program with the Nederlandse Operastichting

(Amsterdam) and Director of Musical Studies for the Canadian Opera Company Ensemble Program (Toronto).

A native of North Carolina and resident of new York for twelve years, Ms. Ross- Neill has appeared frequently in concert with many singers in North American and Europe, where she lived for seven years. She and her husband, William Neill, have per- formed as a team, and certainly they teach as a team, preparing students for careers and continuing to work with them as professionals.

Recorded at Redpath Hall, McGill University, Montreal, Quebec. John Klepko, engineer Mixed by Burnt Hills Studios.

Cover Art The Pierpont Morgan LibraryIArt Resource, NY, Blake, William (1757- 1827) The Sun at His Eastern Gate. Illustration to Milton's "L'Allegro." 1816-1820. Pen and brush, black and gray ink, and watercolor. 6 318 x 4 13/16 inches (16.1 x 12.2 cm). Inv.: 1949.4:3. Cover Design: Bates Miyamoto Design

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