2

On This Island Op. 11

1 Let the florid music praise!
2 Now the leaves are falling fast
3 Seascape (‘For Kit Welford’)
4 Nocturne
5 As it is, plenty
The Holy Sonnets of John Donne Op. 35
6 Oh my Black soule!
7 Batter my heart
8 O might those sighes and teares
9 Oh, to vex me
bk What if this present
bl Since she whom I loved
bm At the round earth’s imagined corners
bn Thou hast made me
bo Death, be not proud
Seven Sonnets of Michelangelo Op. 22
bp Sì come nella penna e nell’inchiostro
bq A che più debb’io mai l’intensa voglia
br Veggio co’ bei vostri occhi un dolce lume
bs Tu sa’ ch’io so, signior mie, che tu sai
bt Rendete a gli occhi miei, o fonte o fiume
ck S’un casto amor, s’una pietà superna
cl Spirto ben nato, in cui si specchia e vede
cm Canticle I ‘My Beloved is Mine’ Op. 40

3
 FOR AN ENGLISH TENOR , the songs of Benjamin Britten are a rich and
hugely important resource. With a great affinity for and understanding of the human
voice, Britten has written music of enormous power and conviction. Here is chamber
music composed with two particular people very much in mind, where he combines
tight compositional structures with real tenderness and lyricism. These works are
both approachable and profound, and performing them is a delight. They work in
performance, as audiences are moved on so many levels, in both the intellectual and
emotional spheres.
It was a form Britten felt drawn to throughout his life, from miniatures in his school
days to the fourth canticle of 1971; even thereafter, feeling perhaps that his playing
days were behind him, he creates works for harp and voice – folksongs, the Birthday
Hansel for the Queen Mother, the fifth canticle – where the hands of Osian Ellis take
over from his own. Our choice for this recording includes music composed over ten
years from 1937 to 47, and we have decided to concentrate on the larger cycles or
sets of songs. These, together with the later Winter Words (which we have already
recorded for Linn), are the central ‘meat’ of his output for tenor and piano. This ten-
year span also encompasses the war and Peter Grimes. The war for Britten meant
(amongst other things) the articulation and defence of his pacifism (and his
consequent ostracism), and his three-year stay in America. Grimes, first performed
in 1945, put Britten centre-stage in the British musical world and established him as
a major figure internationally. It was a watershed for him. His reputation since has
remained rightly secure.

4
On This Island Op. 11 (W. H. Auden)

On This Island dates from 1937 when Britten was 24. This is the year when two
important meetings took place: with Peter Pears and with W. H. Auden, while Britten
and Auden were working in the G. P. O. film unit. The songs of On This Island are part
of a large group of works which this meeting of minds seeded. And they show at once
Britten’s striking wish to stride out with a new, fresh style. Clearly delineated part-
writing and transparent structure combine with a tight motivic development and
an easy melodic gift. The poems are amongst Auden’s less opaque, and Britten
demonstrates his honest ability to distil a thought or an idea and to present it
uncluttered. The poem is the servant of the music. Indeed there are here (fewer than
in later works) the trademark ‘liberties’ of Britten’s treatment of poetry: a repeated
word here, a deliberately interrupted rhythm there. It is striking that after his work with
Auden, he chose, by and large, to set long-dead poets. Perhaps they complained
less. Trumpet fanfares welcome us into a joyful hymn of praise to our lover’s beauty.
The ‘vigilance of breath’ inspires Britten to give us his ‘sleep’ motif: the long/short
susurration perhaps an echo of the sleeping lover’s breathing. This motif is heard
again in the fourth song of the set (Nocturne), and turns up in later works (Now sleeps
the crimson petal, and the longer Nocturne Op. 60) to such great effect. In this first
song the opening ecstasy remains unsuppressed by the un-loving forces in the world.
Now the leaves are falling fast contrasts a rigid self-righteous straightjacket which
contains an unbearable agitation with the opening and closing drops of crystal being
the ‘cold, impossible … mountain’s head’. One can run on endlessly about what
Auden might mean, but I can’t help feeling that the thinly-veiled erotic images must
be at least part of where Auden wants to lead us: propriety and social normality
suffocate lust and true essence. This thought seems prevalent. Seascape is a
refreshingly straightforward portrait, underpinned with beautiful economy by a
surging-wave figuration. The last song, As it is, plenty, is almost Noël Coward. The
biting irony is deliciously underplayed.
5
 Let the florid music praise!
Let the florid music praise,
The flute and the trumpet,
Beauty’s conquest of your face:
In that land of flesh and bone,
Where from citadels on high
Her imperial standards fly,
Let the hot sun
Shine on, shine on.
Now the leaves are falling fast
Now the leaves are falling fast,
Nurse’s flowers will not last;
Nurses to the graves are gone,
And the prams go rolling on.
Whispering neighbours, left and right,
Pluck us from the real delight;
And the active hands must freeze
Lonely on the separate knees.
Dead in hundreds at the back
Follow wooden in our track,
Arms raised stiffly to reprove
In false attitude of love.
6
O but the unloved have had power,
The weeping and striking,
Always; time will bring their hour:
Their secretive children walk
Through your vigilance of breath
To unpardonable death,
And my vows break
Before his look.
Starving through the leafless wood
Trolls run scolding for their food;
And the nightingale is dumb,
And the angel will not come.
Cold, impossible, ahead
Lifts the mountain’s lovely head
Whose white waterfall could bless
Travellers in their last distress.
Seascape (‘For Kit Welford’)
Look, stranger, at this island now
The leaping light for your delight discovers,
Stand stable here
And silent be,
That through the channels of the ear
May wander like a river
The swaying sound of the sea.
Here at the small field’s ending pause
Where the chalk wall falls to the foam, and its tall ledges
Oppose the pluck
And knock of the tide,
And the shingle scrambles after the suck-
ing surf, and the gull lodges
A moment on its sheer side.
Nocturne
Now through night’s caressing grip
Earth and all her oceans slip,
Capes of China slide away
From her fingers into day
And the Americas incline
Coasts towards her shadow line.
Now the ragged vagrants creep
Into crooked holes to sleep:
Just and unjust, worst and best,
Change their places as they rest:
Awkward lovers lie in fields
Where disdainful beauty yields:
Far off like floating seeds the ships
Diverge on urgent voluntary errands;
And the full view
Indeed may enter
And move in memory as now these clouds do,
That pass the harbour mirror
And all the summer through the water saunter.
While the splendid and the proud
Naked stand before the crowd
And the losing gambler gains
And the beggar entertains:
May sleep’s healing power extend
Through these hours to our friend.
Unpursued by hostile force,
Traction engine, bull or horse
Or revolting succubus;
Calmly till the morning break
Let him lie, then gently wake.
7
 As it is, plenty

As it is, plenty; Let him not cease to praise

As it’s admitted Then his spacious days;
The children happy Yes, and the success
And the car, the car Let him bless, let him bless:
That goes so far Let him see in this
And the wife devoted: The profits larger
To this as it is, And the sins venial,
To the work and the banks Lest he see as it is
Let his thinning hair The loss as major
And his hauteur And final, final.
Give thanks, give thanks. “On This Island” by W.H. Auden
Used by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd.
All that was thought Copyrights © 1936
As like as not, is not; All Rights reserved
When nothing was enough
But love, but love
And the rough future
Of an intransigent nature
And the betraying smile,
Betraying, but a smile:
That that is not, is not;
Forget, forget.

8
The Holy Sonnets of John Donne Op. 35 (John Donne)

The Holy Sonnets of John Donne fling us into altogether a darker world. The set dates
from 1945 when Britten had returned from his self-imposed American exile. The war
was over. On his return, he (with, amongst others, Yehudi Menuhin) took part in a visit
to a recently liberated concentration camp. The dark, serious songs of the Donne set
seem to rise from this appalling experience of human cruelty. The poetry is of an older
age, and deals with the struggle to make sense of human sexuality and fallibility in a
world dominated by inhuman doctrine and hierarchy. God stands at once both distant
and personal; faith is sorely tested, but remains secure. Britten finds here fertile
ground. This is a profound and intellectual work, and makes great demands on both
performers and audience. I find it hugely moving to perform, feeling that we and the
audience have travelled a significant path together. The symmetry of the work is clear
and effective. We begin with a strident, sweeping vocal line set against the rhythmic
heartbeat in the piano. We shall re-meet this vocal line in the passacaglia of the last
movement (Death, be not proud) where the melodic resolution of the span of the
minor ninth to octave is mirrored by the harmonic resolution from B minor to major.
This declamatory, fearful, almost empty (two-part writing, by and large) opening
movement leads us to the first fast movement (Batter my heart). The poet begs to be
overwhelmed by the divine, so that his earthly preoccupations – surely devilish work –
should be drowned in a sacred love. The terror of his helplessness when confronted
by his human passions is mirrored in mood and motif in the eighth song (Thou hast
made me) where the melodic shape of Batter my heart – three descending notes
followed by a rising fourth – is reversed. Within these four symmetrical outer
movements the inner five distil their shapes and structure from the outer shell. O might
those sighes and teares uses exactly the same melodic shape as Batter my heart,
but Britten plays with crushing seconds to sigh and weep with the guilty lover.
Agitation and despair return in Oh, to vex me, with a piano part composed almost
entirely of seconds and fourths. The poet bewails his own hypocrisy: preaching one
9
 day, sinning the next. Rising fourths underpin What if this present. The sentiment feels
uncomfortable and logically flawed: beauty can only be an outward manifestation of
goodness, wicked souls are housed in ugly bodies. But the pillow-talk insincerity
seems to emphasise the falsity of the sentiment. There is no hint of insincerity in Since
she whom I loved. Donne had risked his life and soul for the love of Anne More (grand-
niece of Sir Thomas); this sonnet is a product of his grief at her death. Britten’s
treatment is tender, rich and compassionate. It is the heart of the work, and a glorious
song. Britten puts rests in the vocal line in, at first sight, unusual places, avoiding the
obvious breathing places, or the natural ebb of syntax. Over a rocking triplet rhythm
of softly shifting major chords, the result is an unbreakable extended vocal line arching
over time. Trumpets peal in shimmering fourths in At the round earth’s imagined
corners. There is something in this song that has echoes of Oh my Black soule!: the
slow-moving tempo, the pivot of F-sharp, the death-bed setting, the arpeggiated
figuration. After the desperate, breathless Thou hast made me, Death, be not proud
(one of Donne’s most well-known poems) is a homage to Purcell. Britten (and Tippett)
had been bringing the work of Purcell to public attention, and both composers found
themselves deeply affected by this meeting over the centuries. Death, be not proud
is set over a ground bass of five bars’ length. Britten’s working – especially the
delightful refusal to conform to the metrical beginnings and endings of the bass –
mirror Purcell’s genius when working in this form.

Oh my Black soule!

Oh my black soul! Now thou art summoned
By sickness, death’s herald, and champion;
Thou art like a pilgrim, which abroad hath done
Treason, and durst not turn to whence he is fled;
Or like a thief, which till death’s doom be read,
Wisheth himself delivered from prison,
But damned and haled to execution,
Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned.
Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack;
But who shall give thee that grace to begin?
Oh make thy self with holy mourning black,
And red with blushing, as thou art with sin;
Or wash thee in Christ’s blood, which hath this might
That being red, it dyes red souls to white.

10
Batter my heart
Batter my heart, three-person’d God; for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn and make me new.
I, like an usurpt town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but Oh, to no end,
Reason your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv’d, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth’d unto your enemy:
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
O might those sighes and teares
O might those sighs and tears return again
Into my breast and eyes, which I have spent,
That I might in this holy discontent
Mourn with some fruit, as I have mourned in vain;
In mine Idolatry what showers of rain
Mine eyes did waste! what griefs my heart did rent!
That sufferance was my sin; now I repent;
’Cause I did suffer I must suffer pain.
Th’ hydropic drunkard, and night-scouting thief,
The itchy lecher, and self-tickling proud
Have the remembrance of past joys for relief
Of comming ills. To poor me is allowed
No ease; for long, yet vehement grief hath been
Th’ effect and cause, the punishment and sin.
Oh, to vex me
Oh, to vex me, contraries meet in one:
Inconstancy unnaturally hath begot
A constant habit; that when I would not
I change in vows, and in devotion.
As humorous is my contrition
As my profane love, and as soon forgot:
As riddlingly distempered, cold and hot,
As praying, as mute; as infinite, as none.
I durst not view heaven yesterday; and today
In prayers and flattering speeches I court God:
Tomorrow I quake with true fear of his rod.
So my devout fits come and go away
Like a fantastic ague; save that here
Those are my best days, when I shake with fear.
What if this present
What if this present were the world’s last night?
Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell,
The picture of Christ crucified, and tell
Whether that countenance can thee affright,
Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light,
Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierced head fell.
And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell,
Which prayed forgiveness for his foes’ fierce spite?
No, no; but as in my idolatry
I said to all my profane mistresses,
Beauty, of pity, foulness only is
A sign of rigour: so I say to thee,
To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assigned,
This beauteous form assures a piteous mind.
11
 Since she whom I loved
Since she whom I loved hath paid her last debt
To Nature, and to hers, and my good is dead,
And her soul early into heaven ravishèd,
Wholly on heavenly things my mind is set.
Here the admiring her my mind did whet
To seek thee, God; so streams do show the head;
But though I have found thee, and thou my thirst hast fed,
A holy thirsty dropsy melts me yet.
But why should I beg more love, when as thou
Dost woo my soul, for hers offering all thine:
And dost not only fear least I allow
My love to saints and angels, things divine,
But in thy tender jealousy dost doubt
Least the world, flesh, yea, devil put thee out.
At the round earth’s imagined corners
At the round earth’s imagined corners, blow
Your trumpets, Angels, and arise, arise
From death, you numberless infinities
Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go,
All whom the flood did, and fire shall o’erthrow,
All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despair, law, chance, hath slain, and you whose eyes,
Shall behold God, and never taste death’s woe.
But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space,
For, if above all these, my sins abound,
’Tis late to ask abundance of thy grace,
When we are there; here on this lowly ground,
Teach me how to repent; for that’s as good
As if thou hadst seal’d my pardon, with thy blood.
12
Thou hast made me
Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay?
Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste,
I run to death, and death meets me as fast,
And all my pleasures are like yesterday;
I dare not move my dim eyes any way,
Despair behind, and death before doth cast
Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste
By sin in it, which it t’wards hell doth weigh;
Only thou art above, and when towards thee
By thy leave I can look, I rise again;
But our old subtle foe so tempteth me,
That not one hour my self I can sustain;
Thy Grace may wing me to prevent his art,
And thou like Adamant draw mine iron heart.
Death, be not proud
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so,
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
Seven Sonnets of Michelangelo
Op. 22 (Michelangelo Buonarroti)

The sonnet was clearly a poetic shape that Britten found enormously attractive:
the Serenade (1943) ends with Keats’ sonnet; the Nocturne (1958) with one of
Shakespeare’s. Five years before the Donne sonnets, Britten set Seven Sonnets of
Michelangelo. Written in 1940 in America, Britten has surely deliberately chosen to
set work of an incomparably great Italian from a happier time in that country’s history.
And his wish to work in a language other than English (Les Illuminations dates from
a year earlier) surely shows his determination to put an English writer of song on the
international stage, to integrate England, to un-island it. Michelangelo is not greatly
valued as a poet (prolific though he was) but these poems express a simple,
uncluttered, unfettered love and show perplexity that this in itself should not be
enough in the worldly sphere. Britten’s setting is understated and honest. The lover’s
trials do not seem insurmountable; a wonderful irrepressible sunniness shines through
this set of songs, written as a gift from one lover to another. The songs and poems
are suffused with a wholesome and straightforward worship of the beautiful form.
There is something appropriately statuesque in the noble opening song, Sì come
nella penna. Breathless with off-beat accents yet long-phrased, the whys and
wherefores of the second song A che più debb’io mai give way to the sacrifice of self
to the lover. Veggio co’ bei vostri occhi is quite the cousin of Since she whom I loved.
Using major triads and arpeggios, we sense the world through our beloved’s eyes,
ears and mind. Three faster, agitated, frustrated movements follow exploring the
agonies of unrequited love, lost love and love ill-understood by the world around, and
the breathless excitement of the mixing of souls in love fulfilled. Nobility returns in the
arcing sweep of Spirto ben nato, and Britten allows himself hints of voluptuous
harmonisation of the triadic melody. The cycle ends in the ecstatic contentment of
D Major.

13
 Sì come nella penna e nell’inchiostro
Sì come nella penna e nell’inchiostro
è l’alto e’l basso e’l mediocre stile,
e ne’ marmi l’immagin ricca e vile,
secondo che’l sa trar l’ingegno nostro;
così, signor mie car, nel petto vostro,
quante l’orgoglio è forse ogni atto umile;
ma io sol quel c’a me propio è e simile
ne traggo, come fuor nel viso mostro.
Chi semina sospir, lacrime e doglie,
(l’umor dal ciel terreste, schietto e solo,
a vari semi vario si converte),
però pianto e dolor ne miete e coglie;
chi mira alta beltà con sì gran duolo,
dubbie speranze, e pene acerbe e certe.
A che più debb’io mai l’intensa voglia
A che più debb’i’ omai l’intensa voglia
sfogar con pianti o con parole meste,
se di tal sorte ‘l ciel, che l’alma veste,
tard’ o per tempo alcun mai non ne spoglia?
A che ‘l cor lass’ a più languir m’invoglia,
s’altri pur dee morir? Dunque per queste
luci l’ore del fin fian men moleste;
c’ogni altro ben val men c’ogni mia doglia.
Però se ‘l colpo ch’io ne rub’ e ‘nvolo
schifar non posso, almen s’è destinato
chi entrerà ‘nfra la dolcezza e ‘l duolo?
Se vint’ e pres’ i debb’esser beato,
maraviglia non è se nud’ e solo
resto prigion d’un cavalier armato.
14
Just as within pen and ink there exist
The lofty and the low and the middling style,
And within marble are images rich or worthless,
Depending on what our talents can draw out of them,
Thus, my dear lord, there may be in your breast
As much pride as acts of humility;
But I only draw out of it what’s suitable
And similar to me, as my face shows.
As earthly rain from heaven, single and pure,
Is turned into various forms by various seeds,
One who sows sighs and tears and pains
Harvests and reaps from them sorrow and weeping;
And one who looks on high beauty with so great sadness
Is sure to draw from bitter pain and doubtful hopes.
Why should I still pour out my intense desire
In weeping or in mournful words,
If heaven, which clothes all souls with such a fate,
Strips no one of it, either early or late?
Why does my tired heart still make me long to languish
If others must also die? Therefore let my
Final hours be made less wearisome for these eyes,
Since all other good is worth less than all my pain.
Yet at least, if I cannot dodge the blow
I steal and rob from him – if it’s ordained –
Then who will win out between sweetness and sorrow?
If, to be happy, I must be conquered and chained
It is no wonder that, naked and alone,
An armed cavalier’s prisoner I remain.
Veggio co’ bei vostri occhi un dolce lume
Veggio co’ be’ vostr’ occhi un dolce lume
che co’ mie ciechi già veder non posso;
porto co’ vostri piedi un pondo addosso,
che de’ mie zoppi non è già costume.
Volo con le vostr’ ale senza piume;
col vostro ingegno al ciel sempre son mosso;
dal vostr’ arbitrio son pallido e rosso,
freddo al sol, caldo alle più fredde brume.
Nel voler vostro è sol la voglia mia,
i miei pensier nel vostro cor si fanno,
nel vostro fiato son le mie parole.
Come luna da sé sol par ch’io sia,
ché gli occhi nostri in ciel veder non sanno
se non quel tanto che n’accende il sole.
Tu sa’ ch’io so, signior mie, che tu sai
Tu sa’ ch’i’ so, signor mie, che tu sai
ch’i’ venni per goderti più da presso,
e sai ch’i’ so che tu sa’ ch’i’ son desso:
a che più indugio a salutarci omai?
Se vera è la speranza che mi dai,
se vero è’l buon desio che m’è concesso,
rompasi il mur frall’ uno e l’altra messo,
ché doppia forza hann’ i celati guai.
S’i’ amo sol di te, signor mie caro,
quel che di te più ami, non ti sdegni,
ché l’un dell’altro spirto s’innamora.
Quel che nel tuo bel volto bramo e ’mparo,
e mal compres’ è dagli umani ingegni,
chi ’l voul saper cinvien che prima mora.
I see, with your beautiful eyes, a sweet light
That with my blind ones I could never see;
I bear, with your feet, a burden upon me
To which my lame ones are no longer accustomed.
I fly, though lacking feathers, with your wings;
With your mind I’m constantly impelled toward heaven;
Depending on your whim, I’m pale or ruddy,
Cold in the sun, hot in winter’s coldest depths.
Within your will alone is my desire,
My thoughts are created in your heart,
And within your breath are my own words.
Alone, I seem as the moon is by itself:
For our eyes are only able to see in heaven
As much of it as the sun illuminates.
You know that I know, my lord, that you know
That I come closer to take delight in you,
And you know I know you know just who I am:
Why then delay our meeting any longer?
If the hope that you give to me is real,
If the good desire I’ve been granted is real,
Let the wall raised between them be broken down,
For troubles left concealed have double strength.
If I love in you, my dear lord, only what
You love most in yourself, do not be angry,
For it’s one spirit falling in love with the other.
What I yearn for and learn from your fair face
Is poorly understood by mortal minds;
Whoever wants to know it must die first.
15
 Rendete a gli occhi miei, o fonte o fiume
Rendete a gli occhi mei, o fonte o fiume,
l’onde della non vostra e salda vena,
che più v’innalza e cresce, e con più lena
che non è ’l vostro natural costume.
E tu, folt’ aïr, che ’l celeste lume
tempri a’ tristi occhi, de’ sospir miei piena,
rendigli al cor mio lasso e rasserena
tua scura faccia al mio visivo acume.
Renda la terra i passi a le mie piante,
c’ancor l’erba germogli che gli è tolta,
e ’l suono Ecco, già sorda a’ mie lamenti;
gli sguardi agli occhi mie tue luci sante,
ch’io possa altra bellezza un’altra volta
amar, po’ che di me non ti contenti.
S’un casto amor, s’una pietà superna
S’un casto amor, s’una pietà superna,
s’una fortuna infra dua amanti equale,
s’un’ aspra sorte all’un dell’altro cale,
s'un spirto, s’un voler duo cor governa;
s’un’ anima in duo corpi è fatta etterna,
ambo levando al cielo e con pari ale;
s’Amor d’un colpo e d’un dorato strale
le viscer di duo petti arda e discerna;
S’aman l’un l’altro e nessun se medesmo,
d’un gusto e d’un diletto, a tal mercede
c’a un fin voglia l’uno e l’altro porre:
se mille e mille, non sarien centesmo
a tal nodo d’amore, a tanta fede;
e sol l’isdegno il può rompere e sciorre?
16
Give back to my eyes, O fountain and stream,
The waves from that spring, perpetual but not yours,
Which swells and lifts you higher, with stronger flow
Than you possess in your natural course.
And you, dense air, who shade the heavenly light
From my sad eyes, and are full of my sighs,
Give them back to my weary heart, and clear
Your darkened face for my penetrating sight.
Let the earth give back to my feet their footsteps,
So the grass taken from it may sprout again;
And Echo, now deaf to my plaints, return my sound,
And your blessed lights the glances to my eyes,
So I may love another beauty once again
Now that you are not satisfied with me.
If one chaste love, if one sublime compassion,
If one fate are equally shared between two lovers;
If the hard lot of one troubles the other;
If one spirit, if one will governs two hearts;
If one soul in two bodies is made eternal,
Raising both to heaven with similar wings;
If Love with one blow and one gilded dart
Can burn and rend the viscera of two breasts;
If neither loves himself, and they love each other
With one joy and one zeal, to such a degree
That both might wish to come to a single end:
Thousands and thousands would not make a fraction
Of such a love-knot, such fidelity,
And could anger untie or break it?
Spirto ben nato, in cui si specchia e vede
Spirto ben nato, in cui si specchia e vede
nelle tuo belle membra oneste e care
quante natura e ’l ciel tra no’ può fare,
quand’a null’altra bell’opra cede:
spirto leggiadro, in cui si spera e crede
dentro, come di fuor nel viso appare,
amor, pietà, mercè, cose sì rare,
che ma’ furn’in beltà con tanta fede:
l’amor mi prende e la beltà mi lega;
la pietà, la mercè con dolci sguardi
ferma speranz’al cor par che ne doni.
Qual uso o qual governo al mondo niega,
qual crudeltà per tempo o qual più tardi,
c’a sì bell’opra morte non perdoni?
High-born spirit, in whose pure and precious limbs
There can be seen, as if within a mirror,
How heaven and nature can create among us
A work which yields in beauty to no other;
Fair spirit, within whom one has hope and faith
Of finding, as there appears on your outward face,
Love and pity and kindness, things so rare
That they have never been found with beauty to such a degree:
Love takes me captive and beauty binds me fast,
While pity and kindness, with sweet glances,
Seem to give some firm hope to my heart.
What custom or earthly law, what cruelty
Either now or later, could wish to prevent
Death from sparing such a beautiful piece of art?
17
 Canticle I ‘My Beloved is Mine’
Op. 40 (Francis Quarles)

Canticle I ‘My Beloved is Mine’ dates from 1947 and is the first of five very different
works that Britten titled ‘canticle’. Again, Britten chooses to set poetry of an older age.
Francis Quarles (1592–1644) has written a psalm-like poem based on the Song of
Solomon, with short antiphonal phrases. Although set as a single span, it clearly
divides into four movements. An opening barcarolle rocks to the motion of the two
streams which meet in one (very much the mirror of S’un casto amor). A recitative
follows (If all those glittering monarchs) harmonised with splashes of sunlight as it
were from the previous movement. A presto section (Nor time nor place) decays into
a longer lento (He is my altar) with a Purcellian back-dotted rhythm that reminds me
of the opening of the John Donne sonnets. Ending in a beautiful arpeggiated vocal
line over a serene G Major, this work is a miniature masterpiece.

18
Ev’n like two little bank-divided brooks,
That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams,
And having rang’d and search’d a thousand nooks,
Meet both at length at silver-breasted Thames,
Where in a greater current they conjoin:
So I my best-beloved’s am; so he is mine.
Ev’n so we met; and after long pursuit,
Ev’n so we joyn’d; we both became entire;
No need for either to renew a suit,
For I was flax and he was flames of fire:
Our firm-united souls did more than twine;
So I my best-beloved’s am; so he is mine.
If all those glitt’ring Monarchs that command
The servile quarters of this earthly ball,
Should tender, in exchange, their shares of land,
I would not change my fortunes for them all:
Their wealth is but a counter to my coin:
The world’s but theirs; but my beloved’s mine.
Nor Time, nor Place, nor Chance, nor Death can bow
My least desires unto the least remove;
He’s firmly mine by oath; I his by vow;
He’s mine by faith; and I am his by love;
He’s mine by water; I am his by wine,
Thus I my best-beloved’s am; thus he is mine.
He is my Altar; I, his Holy Place;
I am his guest; and he, my living food;
I’m his by penitence; he mine by grace;
I’m his by purchase; he is mine, by blood;
He’s my supporting elm; and I his vine;
Thus I my best beloved’s am; thus he is mine.
He gives me wealth; I give him all my vows:
I give him songs; he gives me length of days;
With wreaths of grace he crowns my longing brows,
And I his temples with a crown of Praise,
Which he accepts: an everlasting sign,
That I my best-beloved’s am; that he is mine.

Anna and I are enormously lucky to have this opportunity to record these glorious
works: works which she and I have grown to know over many years and many
performances. I hope this record will help to show how important song was to
Benjamin Britten, and how these works explore an intimate, personal part of this great
man. We are very proud of this recording, I hope you enjoy it.

© James Gilchrist, 2012

19
 JAMES GILCHRIST began his working life as a
doctor, turning to a full-time career in music in 1996.
James’ concert appearances include The Seasons
and Damon in Acis & Galatea (BBC Proms), Bach
Cantatas (Monteverdi Choir Bach Pilgrimage and Bach
Collegium Japan), Tippett’s The Knot Garden (BBC
Symphony Orchestra), Monteverdi Vespers (The Sixteen),
Frederic in The Pirates of Penzance, Ralph in HMS
Pinafore, Septimius in Theodora and Haydn’s Nelson
Mass (Scottish Chamber Orchestra), the title role in
Judas Maccabeus (The King’s Consort), Israel in Egypt
(Norddeutscher Rundfunk and Collegium Vocale Gent),
Mozart Requiem (Seattle), Alexander’s Feast (Salzburg),
Christmas Oratorio (Zürich), Messiah (San Francisco and
Detroit), War Requiem and Gerontius (Three Choirs
Festival), Mozart’s C Minor Mass (Salzburg Festival), St
Matthew Passion (in the US, at the Royal Festival Hall and with the Rotterdam Philharmonic), St John
Passion (Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra), Britten’s Serenade (Gateshead), Pulcinella (Lugano), On
Wenlock Edge (BBC NOW), Lechmere Owen Wingrave (CLS/Cadogan Hall), Ugone Flavio (Academy
of Ancient Music/Birmingham and London), Creation (Frauenkirche, Dresden, at Westminster
Cathedral for the Bach Choir and on tour with Herreweghe), The Pilgrim’s Progress (Richard
Hickox/Sadler’s Wells), Handel’s Ode for St Cecilia’s Day (SWR/Germany), Oedipus Rex (BBC NOW),
War Requiem (Dresden Philharmonie), Martin’s Der Sturm (Concertgebouw), Saul (Hamburg), King
Arthur (Concert Spirituel/London), Athalia (Concerto Köln) and On Wenlock Edge (Endellion String
Quartet/Leeds Lieder Festival), Haydn Seasons and Creation (Monteverdi Choir), Messiah (St Louis),
Bach Cantatas (NDR Hannover), Die Jahreszeiten Royal Flanders Philharmonic and Les Illuminations
at the Aldeburgh Festival. James is a keen exponent of contemporary music and has performed in
the world premieres of Knut Nystedt’s Apocalypsis Joannis (Oslo Philharmonic) and Tavener’s Total
Eclipse (AAM).

20
 James is a versatile and prolific recitalist. His imaginative programming has been heard in
major recital venues including Wigmore Hall, Aldeburgh and Perth Concert Halls. James performs
regularly with Anna Tilbrook, Julius Drake and harpist Alison Nicholls.
James’ operatic performances include Quint in Britten’s Turn of the Screw, Ferrando in Cosi
Fan Tutte, Scaramuccio in Strauss’ Ariadne Auf Naxos, Gomatz in Mozart’s Zaide (Istanbul), Vaughan
Williams’ Sir John in Love (Barbican/Radio 3), Hyllus Handel’s Hercules (Berlin), Acis & Galatea
(Berlin), Evandre in Gluck’s Alceste (La Monnaie in Brussels) and Purcell’s King Arthur for Mark
Morris at ENO.
Amongst his many recordings are title roles in Albert Herring and Vaughan William’s A Poisoned
Kiss (Chandos), St Matthew Passion (Gabrieli Consort/McCreesh), St John Passion (New College
Choir/Higginbottom), Rachmaninov Vespers (EMI/Kings College, Cambridge), Schütz Sacred Music
(The Sixteen/Collins Classics), Rameau Cantatas and St Mark Passion (ASV), Grainger Songs
(Chandos), Kuhnau Sacred Music (The King’s Consort/Hyperion), Bach Missa Brevis (Collegium
Instrumentale Brugense), and Bach Cantatas. More recently James released an album of Finzi
song cycles, Oh Fair To See, (Linn), Elizabethan Lute Songs, When Laura Smiles, with Matthew
Wadsworth, and Leighton Earth Sweet Earth and Britten’s Winter Words for Linn. James Gilchrist
and Anna Tilbrook have also made critically acclaimed recordings of Die Schöne Müllerin,
Schwanengesang and Winterreise (Orchid Classics).

21
 ANNA TILBROOK is one of Britain’s most exciting
pianists, with a considerable reputation in song recitals
and chamber music. She made her debut at Wigmore Hall
in 1999 and has since become a regular performer at
Europe’s major concert halls and festivals, as well as
coaching regularly for the Royal Opera, Covent Garden.
Anna has collaborated with many leading singers
and instrumentalists including James Gilchrist, Lucy
Crowe, Sarah Tynan, Emma Bell, Willard White, Mark
Padmore, Stephan Loges, Chris Maltman, Ian Bostridge,
Barbara Bonney, Victoria Simmonds, Christine Rice,
Iestyn Davies, Natalie Clein, Nick Daniel, Adrian Brendel
and Jack Liebeck. For Welsh National Opera she has
accompanied Angela Gheorghiu, Jose Carreras and Bryn
Terfel in televised concerts.
With tenor James Gilchrist she has made
acclaimed recordings of 20th century English song for Linn Records, including Vaughan Williams’
On Wenlock Edge (a finalist in the Gramophone Awards 2008), the cycles for tenor and piano by
Gerald Finzi and most recently, songs by Britten and Leighton. For Chandos, James and Anna
recorded a disc of Songs by Lennox Berkeley. In 2009 they embarked on a series of recordings for
Orchid Classics of the Schubert Song Cycles and their disc of Die Schöne Müllerin received great
critical acclaim and was Editor’s Choice in Gramophone, November 2009. Recently released is
Schubert’s Schwanengesang along with Beethoven’s An die Ferne Geliebte and Winterreise. With
String Quartets such as the Fitzwilliam, Elias and Sacconi, she has performed Shostakovich’s
chamber music throughout the UK, Mozart Piano Concertos K. 414 and K. 415 and the Elgar Piano
Quintet.
Recent engagements have included recitals in the Anima Mundi Festival in Pisa, Wroclaw
Cantans, Wigmore Hall, Oxford Lieder Festival, Three Choirs, Derry City of Song and Machylleth
Festivals, a live BBC Radio 3 lunchtime recital at LSO St Luke’s, the Perth Schubertiad and concerts
at Kings Place, Wilton’s Music Hall and St. John’s Smith Square. She gave a chamber music recital
22
in Pisa with Tedi Papavremi and Guido Corti and an acclaimed performance of Messiaen’s Quartet
for the End of Time at the St David’s Festival. With the soprano Lucy Crowe she has performed at
Wigmore Hall, Queen Elizabeth Hall, Lichfield Festival, Music at Oxford and the Gower Festival. In
June 2011 Anna repetiteured and played in the performances of Britten’s The Rape of Lucretia for
the Aldeburgh Festival conducted by Oliver Knussen with a cast including Angelika Kirchschlager,
Ian Bostridge and Christopher Purves.
Anna is also in demand as a repetiteur, continuo player and vocal coach, working for companies
including the Royal Opera, Royal Ballet, Aldeburgh Festival and the London Symphony Orchestra and
conductors including Sir Charles Mackerras, Vasily Petrenko, Harry Christophers and Edward Gardner.
For the 2006 Buxton Festival she made her conducting debut, directing Telemann’s Pimpinone from
the harpsichord.
Born in Hertfordshire, Anna studied music at York University and at the Royal Academy of
Music with Julius Drake, where she was awarded a Fellowship and in 2009 became an Associate.
She also won many major international accompaniment prizes including the AESS Blüthner prize and
the award for an outstanding woman musician from the Royal Overseas League Society of Woman
Musicians. She now lives in London.

Recorded at Potton Hall, Suffolk, UK from 8th-10th March 2011

Produced and recorded by Philip Hobbs
Post-production by Julia Thomas, Finesplice, UK
Photos of James Gilchrist & Anna Tilbrook by Patrick Allen, www.operaomnia.co.uk
Italian language coaching: Marco Canepa

23
 CKD 404
ALSO AVAILABLE BY JAMES GILCHRIST ON LINN

GERALD FINZI LEIGHTON & BRITTEN

Oh Fair to See Earth, Sweet Earth & Winter Words

VAUGHAN WILLIAMS MURIEL HERBERT

On Wenlock Edge Songs

For even more great music visit linnrecords.com

Linn, Glasgow Road, Waterfoot, Eaglesham, Glasgow, G76 0EQ

t: +44 (0)141 303 5027
e: info@linnrecords.co.uk
 On This Island Op. 11
1 Let the florid music praise! 3.36
Benjamin Britten
2 Now the leaves are falling fast 2.20
3 Seascape (‘For Kit Welford’) 2.01
4 Nocturne 3.55
5 As it is, plenty 1.31
MyBeloved is Mine
The Holy Sonnets of John Donne Op. 35
6 Oh my Black soule! 3.05
7 Batter my heart 1.15
MY BELOVED IS MINE BENJAMIN BRITTEN

8 O might those sighes and teares 3.32

9 Oh, to vex me 1.10

JAMES GILCHRIST
MY BELOVED IS MINE BENJAMIN BRITTEN
bk What if this present 3.15
bl Since she whom I loved 3.39
bm At the round earth’s imagined corners 2.32
bn Thou hast made me 1.23
bo Death, be not proud 4.21
Seven Sonnets of Michelangelo Op. 22
JAMES GILCHRIST

bp Sì come nella penna e nell’inchiostro 1.56

bq A che più debb’io mai l’intensa voglia 1.28 James Gilchrist tenor
br Veggio co’ bei vostri occhi un dolce lume 3.12 Anna Tilbrook piano
bs Tu sa’ ch’io so, signior mie, che tu sai 1.44
bt Rendete a gli occhi miei, o fonte o fiume 1.44
ck S’un casto amor, s’una pietà superna 1.24
cl Spirto ben nato, in cui si specchia e vede 5.10
cm Canticle I ‘My Beloved is Mine’ Op. 40 7.30

TOTAL TIME: 62.16

C Linn Records 2012 P Linn Records 2012. Made in the EU. CKD 404 LINN RECORDS
www.linnrecords.com

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