Britten - Serenade for Tenor, Horn and Strings, Op. 31 [Part 1/2]

Benjamin Britten (1913-1976)

Serenade for Tenor, Horn and Strings, Op. 31:
Prologue 0:01
Pastoral 1:25
Nocturne 5:07
Elegy 8:35

Written in 1943.

Robert Tear, tenor
Alan Civil, horn
Neville Marriner, conductor
Northern Sinfonia Orchestra

Released in 1971.

ClassicalRecords is a Youtube channel where I upload some excellent performances from the LPs in my collection. I'm uploading these LPs because they are either not available on CD, out of print on CD, or just difficult to find.

Pastoral
The day's grown old; the fainting sun
Has but a little way to run,
And yet his steeds, with all his skill,
Scarce lug the chariot down the hill.
The shadows now so long do grow,
That brambles like tall cedars show;
Mole hills seem mountains, and the ant
Appears a monstrous elephant.
A very little, little flock
Shades thrice the ground that it would stock;
Whilst the small stripling following them
Appears a mighty Polypheme.
And now on benches all are sat,
In the cool air to sit and chat,
Till Phoebus, dipping in the west,
Shall lead the world the way to rest.
Charles Cotton (1630-1687)


Nocturne
The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory:
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Bugle blow; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)


Elegy
O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
William Blake (1757-1827)