Sleep, fleshly birth - Robert Ramsey
I have an amazing madrigal for you today: Robert Ramsey's 'Sleep, fleshly birth', which sets to music a grief-filled poem written upon the death of Henry, the Prince of Wales, in 1612, at the age of eighteen. Henry was apparently popular among the people, and his untimely passing brought forth a wave of elegies and encomia both poetic and musical.
As you probably know, English madrigal verse was not always of the highest quality. It often was the musical setting which brought a poem to life. But Ramsey's text, by an unknown poet, seems to me to be a moving tribute to the young prince:
Sleep, fleshly birth, in peaceful earth,
and let thine ears list to the music of the spheres,
while we around this fairy ground
thy doleful obit keeping,
make marble melt with weeping.
With num'rous feet we'll part and meet.
Then chorus-like in a ring thy praises sing,
while show'rs of flow'rs bestrew thee,
we'll thus with tears bedew thee.
Rest in soft peace, sweet youth, and there remain
'till soul and body meet to join again.
There are so many lovely images here: The circling heavens echoed by the circle of mourners, the flowers and tears falling, the wishes for soft, peaceful rest. And Ramsey does wonderful things with each of these and more.
His 6-part voicing facilitates his purpose, as he opens up vertical space to make his points of imitation. Some modest chromaticism is used, but the piece is more about textures and about sweeping gestures. The very opening is most unusual, with the three utterances of 'Sleep' giving way to a tutti. The one-against-five texture at bar 26 is very effective, as is the dialog from bars 46 to 59. A different kind of dialog ensues in the triple time, two sets of dancers alternating in the lead.
But the part that really gets me is the ending passage, from bar 96 again. This section deserves its repeat--one wants to hear over and over its opening solemn chords, its ever-falling quarter-note lines moving from part to part, and the written-out ritardando of its final bars.
In its small space, the piece almost acts as a miniature requiem, mourning the lost one and praying for peace and for rest until 'soul and body meet to join again'.
I confidently predict that this will be another among many of these thrice-weekly pieces which will make an appearance in a future Sonoma Bach program.
As usual, a score and a wonderful recording (by Ensemble Alerion) are attached herewith.
I have an amazing madrigal for you today: Robert Ramsey's 'Sleep, fleshly birth', which sets to music a grief-filled poem written upon the death of Henry, the Prince of Wales, in 1612, at the age of eighteen. Henry was apparently popular among the people, and his untimely passing brought forth a wave of elegies and encomia both poetic and musical.
As you probably know, English madrigal verse was not always of the highest quality. It often was the musical setting which brought a poem to life. But Ramsey's text, by an unknown poet, seems to me to be a moving tribute to the young prince:
Sleep, fleshly birth, in peaceful earth,
and let thine ears list to the music of the spheres,
while we around this fairy ground
thy doleful obit keeping,
make marble melt with weeping.
With num'rous feet we'll part and meet.
Then chorus-like in a ring thy praises sing,
while show'rs of flow'rs bestrew thee,
we'll thus with tears bedew thee.
Rest in soft peace, sweet youth, and there remain
'till soul and body meet to join again.
There are so many lovely images here: The circling heavens echoed by the circle of mourners, the flowers and tears falling, the wishes for soft, peaceful rest. And Ramsey does wonderful things with each of these and more.
His 6-part voicing facilitates his purpose, as he opens up vertical space to make his points of imitation. Some modest chromaticism is used, but the piece is more about textures and about sweeping gestures. The very opening is most unusual, with the three utterances of 'Sleep' giving way to a tutti. The one-against-five texture at bar 26 is very effective, as is the dialog from bars 46 to 59. A different kind of dialog ensues in the triple time, two sets of dancers alternating in the lead.
But the part that really gets me is the ending passage, from bar 96 again. This section deserves its repeat--one wants to hear over and over its opening solemn chords, its ever-falling quarter-note lines moving from part to part, and the written-out ritardando of its final bars.
In its small space, the piece almost acts as a miniature requiem, mourning the lost one and praying for peace and for rest until 'soul and body meet to join again'.
I confidently predict that this will be another among many of these thrice-weekly pieces which will make an appearance in a future Sonoma Bach program.
As usual, a score and a wonderful recording (by Ensemble Alerion) are attached herewith.