Berceuse d’Armorique  by Anatole le Braz

Dors, petit enfant, dans ton lit bien clos :
Dieu prenne en pitié les matelots !

- Chante ta chanson, chante, bonne vieille !
La lune se lève et la mer s’éveille.

Au pays du Froid, la houle des fiords
Chante sa berceuse en berçant les morts.

- Chante ta chanson, chante, bonne vieille !
La lune se lève et la mer s’éveille.

Dors, petit enfant, dans ton lit bien doux,
Car tu t’en iras comme ils s’en vont tous.

- Chante ta chanson, chante, bonne vieille !
La lune se lève et la mer s’éveille.

Tes yeux ont déjà la couleur des flots.
Dieu prenne en pitié les bons matelots !

- Chante ta chanson, chante, bonne vieille !
La lune se lève et la mer s’éveille.

Armoric lullaby translation by Hélène Lindqvist (Armorica was an ancient region in France, more or less corresponding to today’s Breton/Brittany)

Sleep, little child, in your soft bed:
May God take pity on the sailors!

– Sing your song, sing, old woman!
The moon is rising and the sea is awakening.

In that cold country, the swell of the fjords
Sings its lullaby while lulling the dead.

– Sing your song, sing, old woman!
The moon is rising and the sea is awakening.

Sleep, little child, in your soft bed,
For you will go away as they all go away.

– Sing your song, sing, old woman!
The moon is rising and the sea is awakening.

Your eyes already have the colour of the waves.
May God take pity on the sailors!

– Sing your song, sing, old woman!
The moon is rising and the sea is awakening.

Til mit Hjertes Dronning  by P.B. Shelley, transl. to danish by Caralis

Skal vi vandre en Stund
I den dæmrende Lund,
Mens Fuldmaanen hist holder Vagt,
Jeg vil hviske, min Skat,
I den kjølige Nat,
Hvad jeg aldrig ved Dagen fik sagt.

Jeg ved Stjernenes Skjær,
Skal betro Dig en Hær
Af Tanker, som aldrig fik Ord,
Imens Nathimlens Glands, Som en straalende Krands,
Om din luftige Skjønhed sig snor.

Og naar Maanen fra Sky Over Marker og By
Udgyder sin sølverne Flod,
Vil mig fængsle dens Skin
Paa din Pande, din Kind,
Vil jeg knæle iløn ved din Fod.

To the queen of my heart   the original by P.B. Shelley

Shall we roam, my love,
To the twilight grove,
When the moon is rising bright?
Oh, I’ll whisper there,
In the cool night air,
What I dare not in broad daylight!

I’ll tell thee a part
Of the thoughts that start
To being when thou art nigh;
And thy beauty, more bright
Than the stars’ soft light,
Shall seem as a weft from the sky.

When the pale moon beam
On tower and stream
Sheds a flood of silver sheen,
How I love to gaze
As the cold ray strays
O’er thy face, my heart’s throned queen!

Lyse Nætter lyrics by Henrik Drachmann

Paa Stranden skælver ej det mindste Blad;
Her ruller Søen sølvblank ud sit Bad,
Og Solnedgangen lejrer sig derover.
I Himlen smeltes ind de bløde Vover,
Du skuer mod uendelige Sletter
Af Barndomsminder uden mørke Pletter,
Vemodig glad: -
De lyse- Nætter, ak de lyse Nætter!

Light nights translation by Hélène Lindqvist

On the strand not even the smallest leaf stirs
the sea rolls silvery out of its bath
And the sunset lays itself over all
Thy sky melts into the waves
You gaze towards eternal plains
of childhood memories without dark patches
Happy in a melancholy way
The light nights, oh, those light nights!

The musical talent of the norwegian composer Agathe Backer-Grøndahl (1847 – 1907) was early discovered. Aged 17 she left for Berlin against the will of her parents to study the piano. Three years later she made her début in Christiania (now Oslo) with Beethoven’s 5th piano concerto under the baton of an unknown conductor named Edward Grieg. After this, she went on studying with the very best of the times: Franz Liszt and Hans von Bülow personally.

One glance at her music and you can tell she must have been an excellent pianist, and indeed she was hailed, even by G.B. Shaw, to be the “true heiress of Clara Schumann”. In 1875 Backer-Grøndahl was elected member of the Royal  Academy of Music in Sweden. She was of great influence to the nordic music scene, and in my opinion would probably have been better known to us today than Grieg, had she only been a man. She was part of the norwegian suffrage movement, bur kept a low profile in this not to jeopardize her music sales.

There is an excellent essay on Backer-Grøndahl by Camilla Hambro at the very informative site of “The Kapralova Society” here.

•  Lyse Nætter
• Til mit Hjertes Dronning/ To the queen of my heart

O, lass dich halten, gold’ne Stunde  by Otto Roquette

O lass dich halten, goldne Stunde,
die nie so schön sich wieder beut!
Schau, wie die Mondnacht in die Runde
all ihre weissen Rosen streut.

Der Tages Stimmen fern verhallten,
nicht Worte stören, nicht Gesang,
des stillsten Glückes innig walten,
nach dem die ganze Seele drang.

So Brust an Brust, so ganz mein eigen,
so halt’ ich dich, geliebtes Bild!
Es rauscht die Nacht, die Lippen schweigen,
und Seele tief in Seele quillt.

Ich bin dein Glück, du meine Wonne,
ich bin dein Leben, du mein Licht:
was soll uns Tag, was soll uns Sonne?
Du schöne Nacht, entflieh uns nicht!

O, please stay, golden hour  translation by Hélène Lindqvist

O, please stay, golden hour,
never again so beautiful!
Look, how moonlight
strews white roses all around

The voices of daytime fade
neither words nor singing disturb
the stillness and peace
that the soul so yearned for

Bosom to bosom I hold you
all to myself, beloved image!
Night murmurs,  lips are silent
And soul swell deep into soul

I am your bliss, you my pleasure
I am your life, you my light:
what would day, what would sunlight bring?
Beautiful night, don’t escape us!

To my little son  by Julia Johnson Davis

In your face I sometimes see
shadowings of the man to be
And eager dream of what my son shall be
in twenty years and one

When you are to manhood grown
And all your manhood ways are known,
then shall I wistful try to trace
The child you once were in your face

Travels End  by Mary Folwell Holsington

O bed in my mother’s house
with sheets as white as May
With blankets wove of carded wool
and scented with new-mown hay

With the poke of the feathered down
from her snow-white plumy geese
Oh, bed of mine in my mother’s house
With sleep that was dreamy peace

Oh, far have I walked forlorn
Oh, bed that my mother made
I would that your sheet might be my shroud
And I in earth be laid.

Price sold her firs composition to a publisher at the age of eleven. Already an accomplished organist and pianist, she later studied composition at the new England Conservatory.

Price’s first symphony in E-minor won first prize in a national competition and was premiered by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra in 1933.

Price composed over 300 works including another symphony, a piano concerto and numerous songs and chamber music pieces. She is well known for her spirituals arrangements, one of which there is a famous recording with Marian Anderson (My soul’s been anchored in de Lord).

• Travel’s end
• To my little son

Colombine by Paul Verlaine

Léandre le sot,
Pierrot qui d’un saut,
De puce
Franchit le buisson,
Cassandre sous son
Capuce,

Arlequin aussi,
Cet aigrefin si
Fantasque
Aux costumes fous,
Ses yeux luisants sous
Son masque,

- Do, mi, sol, mi, fa, -
Tout ce monde va,
Rit, chante
Et danse devant
Une belle enfant
Méchante

Dont les yeux pervers
Comme les yeux verts
Des chattes
Gardent ses appas
Et disent: “À bas
Les pattes!” -

Eux ils vont toujours! – Fatidique cours
Des astres,
Oh! dis-moi vers quels
Mornes ou cruels
Désastres

L’implacable enfant,
Preste et relevant
Ses jupes,
La rose au chapeau,
Conduit son troupeau
De dupes?

Colombine  translation by A. S. Kline at his great site:
Poetry in Translation.com (thanks!)

Leander the fool,
Pierrot hopping too
Like a flea
And leaping the wood,
Cassander with hood
Monkishly,

And then Harlequin,
That scoundrel of sin
Fantastic,
Mad-costumed so,
His eyes a-glow,
Can’t mask it,

– Do, mi, so, mi, fa –
All from wide and far,
Go laughing
Sing for her, dancing
That arch little thing
Enchanting

Whose eyes perverse
Green or something worse
Like a cat,
Cry, in her charms’ cause,
‘Ah, mind where your paws
Are at!’

– Ever and on they go!
Fateful stars that flow
The faster,
Oh, say, towards what
Cruel or dismal lot,
What disaster

This implacable flirt,
Nimbly lifting her skirt,
Her troops,
A rose in her hair,
Leads onward there,
Her dupes?

 Read about Regina Wienawski/Poldowski/Lady Dean here.

För vilsna fötter sjunger gräset  by Hjalmar Gullberg

För vilsna fötter sjnger gräset
Jag är din matta var du går
Räds ej att natten förestår!
För vilsna fötter sjunger gräset
Under mitt täcke sänks din bår
Räds ej att natten förestår!
För vilsna fötter sjunger gräset
Du går mot hemmet var du går.

The grass sings to lost feet   translation by Hélène Lindqvist

The grass sings to lost feet
I am your carpet, wherever you walk
Don’t be afraid of the night!
The grass sings to lost feet
Under my blanket your coffin will be laid
Don’t be afraid of the night!
The grass sings to lost feet
You are homeward bound, wherever you go