Gustav Mahler – Symphony No.6 (Part 3)
Continued from: "Gustav Mahler — Symphony No.6 (Part 2)"
![]() Gustav Mahler, Symphony No.6, H.v.Karajan / BPh DG ![]() |
Something other than politics in Washington, D.C.
![]() Gustav Mahler, Symphony No.6, H.v.Karajan / BPh DG ![]() |
![]() G.Mahler, Symphony No.6, B.Zander/Philharmonia Telarc ![]() |
Here is your regular (abbreviated) Sunday selection of links to online audio and online video from the week gone by. After clicking to an audio or video stream, you may need to press the "Play" button to start the broadcast. Some of these streams become unavailable after a few days.
À mon chevet is a series of posts featuring a quote from whatever book is on my nightstand at the moment.
Lord Byron wrote Childe Harold's Pilgrimage shortly after he returned from his travels to Greece, among other places, and it is in some sense autobiographical, although Byron protested that it was not. When Byron visited what was once Delphi, the site was occupied by a Greek village, whose residents had reused some of the stone ruins to build houses and other structures. He saw the Castalian spring, once thought to contain the sacred waters imbibed by the Pythia before she spoke with the voice of Apollo. (Again he is supposed to have inscribed his name at the ruins of the gymnasium not far from the spring, although visitors are not at present allowed to go near those places because rocks recently fell from the mountain face above.)I.
Oh, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth,
Muse! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will!
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:
Yet there I've wander'd by they vaunted rill;
Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine,
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
To grace so plain a tale -- this lowly lay of mine.
LX.
Oh thou, Parnassus! whom I now survey,
not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye,
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky,
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty!
What marvel if I thee essay to sing?
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by
Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string,
Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing.
LXI.
Oft have I dream'd of thee! whose glorious name
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore:
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas! with shame
That I in feeblest accents must adore
When I recount thy worshippers of yore,
I tremble, and can only bend the knee;
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy
In silent joy to think at last I look on thee!
LXII.
Happier in this than mightiest bards have been,
Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot,
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene,
Which others rave of, though they know it not?
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot,
And thou, the Muses' seat, are not their grave,
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot,
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave,
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave.
-- Lord Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto I (selections)
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Filed under Concert Reviews, Felix Mendelssohn, Ionarts at Large, Ionarts from Vienna, jfl