27 Margaret Street, Cavendish Square.The Black Swan, in appealing to the generosity of the British public, assures them that the primary object of her visit to Europe is, to accomplish herself in the science of music, which professional friends earnestly counsel her to pursue, and which she embracescon amore, with the confident hope that, by the exercise of her vocal faculties in a more cultured form, she may be able to achieve the great object of her life. She is sensible of the philanthropic spirit of the people of Great Britain, and feels confident that they will receive her appeal with that kindness and forbearance that ever characterizes them in the cause of true humanity.The Black Swan, therefore, has the honour of informing the nobility, gentry, and public, that she will shortly appear at a grand concert (the particulars of which will be announced) under distinguished patronage.Elizabeth T. Greenfield.London, May, 1853.
27 Margaret Street, Cavendish Square.
The Black Swan, in appealing to the generosity of the British public, assures them that the primary object of her visit to Europe is, to accomplish herself in the science of music, which professional friends earnestly counsel her to pursue, and which she embracescon amore, with the confident hope that, by the exercise of her vocal faculties in a more cultured form, she may be able to achieve the great object of her life. She is sensible of the philanthropic spirit of the people of Great Britain, and feels confident that they will receive her appeal with that kindness and forbearance that ever characterizes them in the cause of true humanity.
The Black Swan, therefore, has the honour of informing the nobility, gentry, and public, that she will shortly appear at a grand concert (the particulars of which will be announced) under distinguished patronage.
Elizabeth T. Greenfield.
London, May, 1853.
We cannot refrain from quoting Mrs. Stowe’s description of the concert, after dinner at the Stafford house.
“The concert room was the brilliant and picturesque hall I have before described to you. It looked more picture like and dreamy than ever. The piano was on the flat stairway just below the broad central landing. It was a grand piano, standing end outward, and perfectly banked up among hot house flowers, so that only its gilded top was visible. Sir George Smart presided. The choicest of theélitewere there. Ladies in demi-toilet and bonneted. Miss Greenfield stood among the singers on the staircase, and excited a pathetic murmur among the audience. She is not handsome, but looked very well. She has a pleasing dark face, wore a black velvet head-dress, and white cornelian ear-rings, a black moire antique silk, made high in the neck, with white lace falling sleeves, and white gloves. A certain gentleness of manner and self-possession, the result of the universal kindness shown her, sat well upon her. Chevalier Bunsen, the Prussian Ambassador, sat by me. He looked at her with much interest. “Are the race often as good looking?” he said. I said, “She is not handsome compared with many, though I confess she looks uncommonly well to-day.” The singing was beautiful; six of the most cultivated glee singers of London sang,among other things, “Spring’s delights are now returning,” and “Where the bee sucks, there lurk I.” The Duchess said, “These glees are peculiarly English.” Miss Greenfield’s turn for singing now came, and there was profound attention. Her voice, with its keen, searching fire, its penetrating vibrant quality, its “timbre,” as the French have it, cut its way like a Damascus blade to the heart. It was the more touching from the occasional rusticities and artistic defects, which showed that she had received no culture from art. She sung the ballad, “Old folks at home,” giving one verse in the soprano, and another in the tenor voice. As she stood partially concealed by the piano, Chevalier Bunsen thought that the tenor part was performed by one of the gentlemen. He was perfectly astonished when he discovered that it was by her. This was rapturously encored. Between the parts, Sir George took her to the piano, and tried her voice by skips, striking notes here and there at random, without connexion, from D in alto to A first space in bass clef; she followed with unerring precision, striking the sound nearly at the same instant his finger touched the key. This brought out a burst of applause.”Lord Shaftsbury was there; he came and spoke to us after the concert. Speaking of Miss Greenfield, he said, “I consider the use of these halls for the encouragement of an outcast race, a consecration. This is the true use of wealth and splendour when they are employed to raise up and encourage the despised and forgotten.”When Mrs. Stowe’s account of the concert was read to Miss Greenfield, she remarked—“Ishouldhave looked well to the lady—for the black moire antique silk in which I was clad was the gift of Mrs. Stowe, and made under her own direction. It cost her seventy-five dollars.” Mrs. Stowe’s sympathy seemed ever to have followed her with a watchful care. We find this interesting letter among her papers of this date.
“The concert room was the brilliant and picturesque hall I have before described to you. It looked more picture like and dreamy than ever. The piano was on the flat stairway just below the broad central landing. It was a grand piano, standing end outward, and perfectly banked up among hot house flowers, so that only its gilded top was visible. Sir George Smart presided. The choicest of theélitewere there. Ladies in demi-toilet and bonneted. Miss Greenfield stood among the singers on the staircase, and excited a pathetic murmur among the audience. She is not handsome, but looked very well. She has a pleasing dark face, wore a black velvet head-dress, and white cornelian ear-rings, a black moire antique silk, made high in the neck, with white lace falling sleeves, and white gloves. A certain gentleness of manner and self-possession, the result of the universal kindness shown her, sat well upon her. Chevalier Bunsen, the Prussian Ambassador, sat by me. He looked at her with much interest. “Are the race often as good looking?” he said. I said, “She is not handsome compared with many, though I confess she looks uncommonly well to-day.” The singing was beautiful; six of the most cultivated glee singers of London sang,among other things, “Spring’s delights are now returning,” and “Where the bee sucks, there lurk I.” The Duchess said, “These glees are peculiarly English.” Miss Greenfield’s turn for singing now came, and there was profound attention. Her voice, with its keen, searching fire, its penetrating vibrant quality, its “timbre,” as the French have it, cut its way like a Damascus blade to the heart. It was the more touching from the occasional rusticities and artistic defects, which showed that she had received no culture from art. She sung the ballad, “Old folks at home,” giving one verse in the soprano, and another in the tenor voice. As she stood partially concealed by the piano, Chevalier Bunsen thought that the tenor part was performed by one of the gentlemen. He was perfectly astonished when he discovered that it was by her. This was rapturously encored. Between the parts, Sir George took her to the piano, and tried her voice by skips, striking notes here and there at random, without connexion, from D in alto to A first space in bass clef; she followed with unerring precision, striking the sound nearly at the same instant his finger touched the key. This brought out a burst of applause.”
Lord Shaftsbury was there; he came and spoke to us after the concert. Speaking of Miss Greenfield, he said, “I consider the use of these halls for the encouragement of an outcast race, a consecration. This is the true use of wealth and splendour when they are employed to raise up and encourage the despised and forgotten.”
When Mrs. Stowe’s account of the concert was read to Miss Greenfield, she remarked—“Ishouldhave looked well to the lady—for the black moire antique silk in which I was clad was the gift of Mrs. Stowe, and made under her own direction. It cost her seventy-five dollars.” Mrs. Stowe’s sympathy seemed ever to have followed her with a watchful care. We find this interesting letter among her papers of this date.
My Dear Miss Greenfield:—I am sorry I cannot see you before I leave town, but I give you in parting my best wishes. Enclosed you will find the bill for your dress and other thingsreceipted—the receipt you had betterkeep, lest by some mistake you be called upon to pay the bill bye and bye—such mistakes sometimes happen.And now, my dear friend, I hope that you will endeavour always, first of all things, todo what is right. Trust in your heavenly Father and Divine Saviour; read the Bible daily, and strive to know his will.Do not spend your Sundays in idleness or folly, but go regularly to church, and try to profit by what you hear.I trust that you will read in this little book the text for each day—and I pray God to bless you.There are a great many temptations in a life like yours, but if you pray to God, he will be your Father and help you always to do right and make your way plain before you.Let me beg of you to be careful as to your dress. Do not dress low in the neck—do not try for showy colours—but keep aplain modestrespectable style.It was for this purpose that I furnished you with a suit. These things are very important for one in your position, and if rightly managed will secure for you respect.In your manners be just as simple as you always have been.—Don’t put on anything—don’t try to pass for anything but what you really are, and you will keep the friends that you have made. I hope to hear good accounts of you when I return.Your true and affectionate friend,(Signed) H. B. Stowe.If you wish to write to me, carry the letter to Samson Lowe, 47 Ludgate Hill, and he will send it to me. I shall be glad to hear from you.H. B. S.
My Dear Miss Greenfield:—I am sorry I cannot see you before I leave town, but I give you in parting my best wishes. Enclosed you will find the bill for your dress and other thingsreceipted—the receipt you had betterkeep, lest by some mistake you be called upon to pay the bill bye and bye—such mistakes sometimes happen.
And now, my dear friend, I hope that you will endeavour always, first of all things, todo what is right. Trust in your heavenly Father and Divine Saviour; read the Bible daily, and strive to know his will.
Do not spend your Sundays in idleness or folly, but go regularly to church, and try to profit by what you hear.
I trust that you will read in this little book the text for each day—and I pray God to bless you.
There are a great many temptations in a life like yours, but if you pray to God, he will be your Father and help you always to do right and make your way plain before you.
Let me beg of you to be careful as to your dress. Do not dress low in the neck—do not try for showy colours—but keep aplain modestrespectable style.
It was for this purpose that I furnished you with a suit. These things are very important for one in your position, and if rightly managed will secure for you respect.
In your manners be just as simple as you always have been.—Don’t put on anything—don’t try to pass for anything but what you really are, and you will keep the friends that you have made. I hope to hear good accounts of you when I return.
Your true and affectionate friend,(Signed) H. B. Stowe.
If you wish to write to me, carry the letter to Samson Lowe, 47 Ludgate Hill, and he will send it to me. I shall be glad to hear from you.
H. B. S.
At the presentation of the Inkstand, by the ladies of Surrey Chapel to Mrs. Stowe, Miss Greenfield was present and sang some songs. At the Stafford House Mrs. Stowe showed to her grace a note which Miss Greenfield had sent for her to correct. The Duchess said, “O, give it me! it is a great deal better as it is. I like it just as she wrote it.” Mrs. Stowe thinks people always like simplicity and truth better than finish.
Tuesday, May 31, 1853.
Miss Greenfield’s first public morning concert took place at the Queen’s Concert Rooms, Hanover Square. She came out under the immediate patronage of her grace the Duchess of Sutherland, her grace the Duchess of Norfolk, and the Earl and Countess of Shaftsbury. It commenced at three o’clock and terminated at five. Mrs. Stowe says, Miss Greenfield did very well, and was heard with indulgence, though surrounded with artists who had enjoyed what she had not—a life’s training. I could not but think, remarks Mrs. Stowe, what a loss to art is the enslaving of a race which might produce so much musical talent. Had Miss Greenfield had cultureequal to her voice and ear,nosinger of any country could have surpassed her. There could be even associations of poetry thrown around the dusky hue of her brow were it associated with the triumphs of art.
The following is the bill of her second grand concert at the Queen’s Concert Rooms, Hanover Square. She was assisted by the following eminent artists.
Overture in C Minor,—“Peace and War,”
Duetto,—“Dunque io son,”—(Barbiere) M’lle. Rita Favanti and Mr. Charles Cotton,
Song,—“I arise from dreams of thee,”—Miss Ursula Barclay,
Cavatina,—“Adelaide”—Signor Gardoni,
“The Cradle Song,”—Miss Greenfield,
Grand Fantasia,—Piano Forte—Miss Rosina Bentley, (pupil of Miss Kate Loder) (Prophiete)
Aria,—“Sorgete,”—Mr. Cotton (Maometto)
Cavatina,—(by desire) “Non Piu mesta”—Mdlle. Rita Favanti (Cenerentola)
Song,—“The Slave’s Dream,” Herr Brandt,
Song,—“When the thorn is white with blossom” Mrs. Wokie, (late Miss Fanny Russell, pupil of Mr. Henry Philips,)
Variations, Violin,—“Hilli Milli Puniah,” and East Indian air, M. de Valadares,
Song,—“The Vision of the Negro Slave,”
Aria,—“Di pescatore ignobile,”—Mr. Sims Reeves,
Grand Concertante Duette,—Violoncello and Contra Basso, Signori Piatti, and Bottesini, (I Puritani,)
Air,—“Diamans de le Couronne,”—Miss Louisa Pyne,
Solo Tenor Sax Tuba,—Mr. Henry Distin,
Scena,—“Joan of Arc in Prison,” Miss Dolby,
Overture,—“Fra Diavolo,”
Grand Duett for Two Piano-fortes,—Mrs. Henry Thompson, (late Miss Kate Loder) and her pupil Miss Rosina Bentley, (Huguenots,)
German Song,—“My heart’s on the Rhine,” Herr Pischek,
Cavatina,—“Bell raggio,”—(Semiramide) Mdlle. Rita Favanti,
Duetto,—“Tutto di te sollecitto,”—Miss Louisa Pyne and Signor Gardoni. (Adelia)
Ballad,—“Sweet Home,”—Miss Stabbach,
Song,—“Good bye, sweetheart,”—Mr. Sims Reeves,
Fantaisie,—Violoncello—Signor Piatti,
Aria,—“Ernani,”—Mrs. Wokie,
A Fireside Song,—(by desire)—Miss Greenfield,
Solo,—“Contra Basso,” Signor Bottessini,
German Song,—(by particular desire) “The Standard Bearer,” Herr Pischek,
Scotch Song,—“Heigho, Janet,”—Miss Dolby,
Song,—(by desire) “When stars are in the quiet sky,”—Miss Greenfield, accompanied by herself on the piano-forte.
Finale,—“Wedding March,”
The London Morning Post says,—A large assemblage of fashionable and distinguished personages, assembled by invitation at Stafford House, to hear and decide upon the merits of a phenomenon, in the musical world. Miss Elizabeth Greenfield, better known in America as the “Black Swan,” under which sobriquet she is also about to be presented to the British public. This lady is said to possess a voice embracing the extraordinary compass of nearly three octaves; and her performances on this occasion elicited the unmistakable evidence of gratification. She is, without doubt, deficient in science and cultivation, but she displays remarkable intelligence, and is gifted with feeling and the capacity of conveying it to her auditors.
In the hackneyed song of “Home, sweet home,” she produced, by the pathos and expression she contrived to throw into the music, a very decided impression; nor was she less successful in other music of a different character.
Again, the London Observer remarks—“A concert of vocal music was given in the past week, at Stafford House, the residence of the Duke and Duchess of Sutherland, to test and make known the powers and merits of the American vocalist, Elizabeth Greenfield. She is now about twenty-five years of age, and has come to England to perfect herself in singing, in the hope of elevating the popular estimate of her unfortunate race, by the development and display of any artistic talent she may possess. Herdébutwas in the highestdegree favourable; Her voice was at once declared to be one of extraordinary compass. Both her high and low notes were heard with wonder by the assembled amateurs, and her ear was pronounced to be excellent.”
London Advertiser, of June 16th, contained the following comments. “A concert was given at Exeter Hall last evening by Miss Greenfield, the American vocalist, better known in this country under the sobriquet of the ‘Black Swan.’ Apart from the natural gifts with which this lady is endowed, the great musical skill which she has acquired both as a singer and an instrumentalist, are convincing arguments against the assertion so often made, that the negro race are incapable of intellectual culture of a high standard. Miss Greenfield, by birth as well as appearance, is decidedly a negress, her father having been a full African, and her mother of mixed extraction. She herself was born and brought up a slave in the United States, although freed at an early age. On the death of her mistress her vocal abilities, which were already known in a limited circle, were, by the judicious assistance of some kind-hearted friends, brought into public notice; and she was enabled to receive the necessary training and instruction. She speedily became a proficient in the art of vocalization; and, after giving a series of concerts in the United States, she felt sufficient confidence in her abilities to resolve on standing the test of an English audience. Her voice is a contralto, of great clearness and mellow tone in the upper register, and full, resonant, and powerful in the lower, though slightly masculine in itstimbre. It is peculiarly effective in ballad songs of the pathetic cast, several of which Miss Greenfield sang last night in a very expressive manner. She was encored in two, “The Cradle Song,” a simple melody by Wallace, and “Home, Sweet Home,” which she gave in an exceedingly pleasing manner. The programme of the concert was bountifully drawn up; for, in addition to the attractions of the Black Swan, there was a host of first-rate artists. Herr Brandt, a German artist, with a remarkably sweet voice, sang Professor Longfellow’s ‘Slave’s Dream,’ set to very beautiful music by Hatton, in a way that elicited warm applause. Miss Rosina Bentley played a fantasia by Lutz, very brilliantly, and afterwards assisted by Miss Kate Loder, who, however, must now be known as Mrs. Henry Thompson, in a grand duet for two piano-fortes, by Osborne. M. Valadares executed a curious Indian air, “Hilli Milli Puniah,” on the violin, and Mr. Henry Distin a solo on the sax tuba. The band was admirable, and performed a couple ofovertures in the best manner. Altogether, the concert, which we understand was made under the distinguished patronage of the Duchess of Sutherland, was highly successful, and went off to the perfect gratification of a numerous and fashionable audience.”
Words of Miss Greenfield’s Grand Concert.
PART I.
Overture—in C Minor.—“PEACE AND WAR.”—Duggan.
Song—“I ARISE FROM DREAMS OF THEE.”—Alfred Mellon.
MISS URSULA BARCLAY.
I arise from dreams of thee,In the first sweet sleep of night;When winds are breathing low,And the stars are shining bright;—I arise from dreams of thee,And a spirit in my feetHas led me, who knows how,To thy chamber window sweet.Oh take my last fond sigh,I die—I faint—I fall;The dews of night are chillOn my lips and eyelids pale;My cheek is cold and white,And my heart beats loud and fast;Oh press it close to thine,Where it will break at last.
I arise from dreams of thee,In the first sweet sleep of night;When winds are breathing low,And the stars are shining bright;—I arise from dreams of thee,And a spirit in my feetHas led me, who knows how,To thy chamber window sweet.Oh take my last fond sigh,I die—I faint—I fall;The dews of night are chillOn my lips and eyelids pale;My cheek is cold and white,And my heart beats loud and fast;Oh press it close to thine,Where it will break at last.
I arise from dreams of thee,In the first sweet sleep of night;When winds are breathing low,And the stars are shining bright;—I arise from dreams of thee,And a spirit in my feetHas led me, who knows how,To thy chamber window sweet.
Oh take my last fond sigh,I die—I faint—I fall;The dews of night are chillOn my lips and eyelids pale;My cheek is cold and white,And my heart beats loud and fast;Oh press it close to thine,Where it will break at last.
Cavatina.—“ADELAIDE.”—Beethoven.
Signor Gardoni.
Nel giardino solingo v’ al tuo bene dolcemente di rose a luce sparso, che frà tremole frondi si diffonde Adelaida! Nel cristallo del rio, sù nell’ alpi, nell’ aurate del di cadente nubi, nelle stelle risplende il tuo sembiante, Adelaida! Nelle tenere frondi garron l’aure e sursurran del Maggio le violette, l’onde fremono, e canta l’ usi gnuolo, Adelaida! Prodigioso! rinasce sulla tomba dalle cencri del mio cor un fiore, ve su foglie purpure e traluce, Adelaida!
Nel giardino solingo v’ al tuo bene dolcemente di rose a luce sparso, che frà tremole frondi si diffonde Adelaida! Nel cristallo del rio, sù nell’ alpi, nell’ aurate del di cadente nubi, nelle stelle risplende il tuo sembiante, Adelaida! Nelle tenere frondi garron l’aure e sursurran del Maggio le violette, l’onde fremono, e canta l’ usi gnuolo, Adelaida! Prodigioso! rinasce sulla tomba dalle cencri del mio cor un fiore, ve su foglie purpure e traluce, Adelaida!
THE CRADLE SONG—Wallace.MISS GREENFIELD.Sweet and low, sweet and low,Wind of the western sea,Over the rolling waters go,Come from the drooping moon—And blow him again to meWhile my little one sleeps.Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,Father will come to thee soon—Rest, rest on mother’s breast,Father will come to thee soon—Father will come to the babe in his nest.Silver sails all out of the west,Under the moon, the silver moon:Sleep, my little one—Sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
THE CRADLE SONG—Wallace.MISS GREENFIELD.Sweet and low, sweet and low,Wind of the western sea,Over the rolling waters go,Come from the drooping moon—And blow him again to meWhile my little one sleeps.Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,Father will come to thee soon—Rest, rest on mother’s breast,Father will come to thee soon—Father will come to the babe in his nest.Silver sails all out of the west,Under the moon, the silver moon:Sleep, my little one—Sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
THE CRADLE SONG—Wallace.
MISS GREENFIELD.
Sweet and low, sweet and low,Wind of the western sea,Over the rolling waters go,Come from the drooping moon—And blow him again to meWhile my little one sleeps.Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,Father will come to thee soon—Rest, rest on mother’s breast,Father will come to thee soon—Father will come to the babe in his nest.Silver sails all out of the west,Under the moon, the silver moon:Sleep, my little one—Sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
Aria.—SORGETE E IN SI BEL GIORNO—(Maometto)Rossini.
Sorgete e in si bel giornoO prodi mici guerrieriA Maometto intornuoVenite ad e sultar.Duce di tanti eroiCrollar faro’ gl’ ImperiE volero con voiDel mondo a trionfar.
Sorgete e in si bel giornoO prodi mici guerrieriA Maometto intornuoVenite ad e sultar.Duce di tanti eroiCrollar faro’ gl’ ImperiE volero con voiDel mondo a trionfar.
Sorgete e in si bel giornoO prodi mici guerrieriA Maometto intornuoVenite ad e sultar.
Duce di tanti eroiCrollar faro’ gl’ ImperiE volero con voiDel mondo a trionfar.
Cavatina.—“NON PIU MESTA.”—(Cenerentola)Rossini.
MD’LLE. RITA FAVANTI.RECITATIVE.Non piu mesta accanto al fuoco staroSola a gorgheggiar nò; Ah! for un ’lampoUn sogno un gioco il mio lungo palpitarNon più mesta, &c., &c.
MD’LLE. RITA FAVANTI.RECITATIVE.Non piu mesta accanto al fuoco staroSola a gorgheggiar nò; Ah! for un ’lampoUn sogno un gioco il mio lungo palpitarNon più mesta, &c., &c.
MD’LLE. RITA FAVANTI.
RECITATIVE.
Non piu mesta accanto al fuoco staroSola a gorgheggiar nò; Ah! for un ’lampoUn sogno un gioco il mio lungo palpitarNon più mesta, &c., &c.
ARIA.
Nacqui all’ affanno, al pianto.Soffri tacendo il core;Ma per soave incantoDell’ età mia fiore,Come un baleno rapidoLa sorte mia cangio.Nò, nò! tergete il ciglio,Perchè tremar, perchè?A questo sen volateFiglia, Sorella, Amica,Tutto trovate in me.
Nacqui all’ affanno, al pianto.Soffri tacendo il core;Ma per soave incantoDell’ età mia fiore,Come un baleno rapidoLa sorte mia cangio.Nò, nò! tergete il ciglio,Perchè tremar, perchè?A questo sen volateFiglia, Sorella, Amica,Tutto trovate in me.
Nacqui all’ affanno, al pianto.Soffri tacendo il core;Ma per soave incantoDell’ età mia fiore,Come un baleno rapidoLa sorte mia cangio.Nò, nò! tergete il ciglio,Perchè tremar, perchè?A questo sen volateFiglia, Sorella, Amica,Tutto trovate in me.
Song.—“THE SLAVE’S DREAM.”—Hatton.
HERR BRANDT.Beside the ungathered rice he lay,His sickle in his hand,His breast was bare—his matted hairWas buried in the sand;Again in the mist and shadow of sleepHe saw his native land,Wide thro’ the landscape of his dream,The Lordly Niger flowed,Beneath the palm trees on the plainOnce more a king he strode;And heard the tinkling caravansDescend the mountain road.He saw once more his dark-eyed QueenAmong her children stand;They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,They held him by the hand;A tear burst from the sleeper’s lids,And fell into the sand.At night he heard the lion roar,And the fierce hyena scream;And the river horse, as he crushed the reedsBeside some hidden stream,And it passed like a glorious roll of drumsThrough the triumph of his dream;He did not feel the driver’s whip,Nor the burning heat of day,—For death hath illumined the land of sleep;And his lifeless body layA worn out fetter, that the soulHad broken and thrown away.
HERR BRANDT.Beside the ungathered rice he lay,His sickle in his hand,His breast was bare—his matted hairWas buried in the sand;Again in the mist and shadow of sleepHe saw his native land,Wide thro’ the landscape of his dream,The Lordly Niger flowed,Beneath the palm trees on the plainOnce more a king he strode;And heard the tinkling caravansDescend the mountain road.He saw once more his dark-eyed QueenAmong her children stand;They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,They held him by the hand;A tear burst from the sleeper’s lids,And fell into the sand.At night he heard the lion roar,And the fierce hyena scream;And the river horse, as he crushed the reedsBeside some hidden stream,And it passed like a glorious roll of drumsThrough the triumph of his dream;He did not feel the driver’s whip,Nor the burning heat of day,—For death hath illumined the land of sleep;And his lifeless body layA worn out fetter, that the soulHad broken and thrown away.
HERR BRANDT.
Beside the ungathered rice he lay,His sickle in his hand,His breast was bare—his matted hairWas buried in the sand;Again in the mist and shadow of sleepHe saw his native land,Wide thro’ the landscape of his dream,The Lordly Niger flowed,Beneath the palm trees on the plainOnce more a king he strode;And heard the tinkling caravansDescend the mountain road.He saw once more his dark-eyed QueenAmong her children stand;They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,They held him by the hand;A tear burst from the sleeper’s lids,And fell into the sand.At night he heard the lion roar,And the fierce hyena scream;And the river horse, as he crushed the reedsBeside some hidden stream,And it passed like a glorious roll of drumsThrough the triumph of his dream;He did not feel the driver’s whip,Nor the burning heat of day,—For death hath illumined the land of sleep;And his lifeless body layA worn out fetter, that the soulHad broken and thrown away.
Song.—“WHEN THE THORN IS WHITE WITH BLOSSOM.”—Weber.
MRS. WOKIE.When the thorn is white with blossom,And the fountain flows again,Tell me, mother, must I fly himIf he seek me on the plain;Or the meadow where the primrose first is found,And beneath the spreading beechesMany a violet decks the ground,When the thorn is white with blossomAnd the fountain flows again.Should I at the fall of twilightHear afar his flute’s soft lays,—Mother, must I close the latticeIf I know for me he plays;On the willow where engrav’d I find my name,If I linger long to read it,Shall I hear my mother blame;When the thorn is white with blossom,And the fountain flows again.Tell me if a dewy garlandHang beside thy summer bower,Twin’d with leaves of fragrant myrtle,And each fairest early flower,Must it wither, if I know he placed it there?Mother, tell me, would you chide me,If I bound it round my hair?When the thorn is white with blossom,And the fountain flows again.
MRS. WOKIE.When the thorn is white with blossom,And the fountain flows again,Tell me, mother, must I fly himIf he seek me on the plain;Or the meadow where the primrose first is found,And beneath the spreading beechesMany a violet decks the ground,When the thorn is white with blossomAnd the fountain flows again.Should I at the fall of twilightHear afar his flute’s soft lays,—Mother, must I close the latticeIf I know for me he plays;On the willow where engrav’d I find my name,If I linger long to read it,Shall I hear my mother blame;When the thorn is white with blossom,And the fountain flows again.Tell me if a dewy garlandHang beside thy summer bower,Twin’d with leaves of fragrant myrtle,And each fairest early flower,Must it wither, if I know he placed it there?Mother, tell me, would you chide me,If I bound it round my hair?When the thorn is white with blossom,And the fountain flows again.
MRS. WOKIE.
When the thorn is white with blossom,And the fountain flows again,Tell me, mother, must I fly himIf he seek me on the plain;Or the meadow where the primrose first is found,And beneath the spreading beechesMany a violet decks the ground,When the thorn is white with blossomAnd the fountain flows again.
Should I at the fall of twilightHear afar his flute’s soft lays,—Mother, must I close the latticeIf I know for me he plays;On the willow where engrav’d I find my name,If I linger long to read it,Shall I hear my mother blame;When the thorn is white with blossom,And the fountain flows again.
Tell me if a dewy garlandHang beside thy summer bower,Twin’d with leaves of fragrant myrtle,And each fairest early flower,Must it wither, if I know he placed it there?Mother, tell me, would you chide me,If I bound it round my hair?When the thorn is white with blossom,And the fountain flows again.
Variations, Violin.“Hillì Milli Puniah,” (an East Indian air,)Valdares.Song.—“THE VISION OF THE NEGRO SLAVE.”
MISS GREENFIELD.Tortured to death by lash-inflicted wound;His head bowed down, and sunk upon the ground;Sad was his soul, oppress’d by heavy care.Far, far from his home, his heart—deep, dark despair:When lo! a vision broke before his sight,A vision holy, beautiful, and bright;The thorn-crown’d brow, with calm pale look resignedOf one who suffered for mankind.A voice, more sweet than earthly music’s thrill,Spake to the captive’s heart—be patient, still.Behold how meekly mercy’s palm to winHe suffered for thy sake, who had no sin,As on His Father’s throne by suffering gained,At length He sitteth, so thy soul, unchainedBy patience and long faith, at last shall boundInto Eternal Life, and be with glory crown’d.
MISS GREENFIELD.Tortured to death by lash-inflicted wound;His head bowed down, and sunk upon the ground;Sad was his soul, oppress’d by heavy care.Far, far from his home, his heart—deep, dark despair:When lo! a vision broke before his sight,A vision holy, beautiful, and bright;The thorn-crown’d brow, with calm pale look resignedOf one who suffered for mankind.A voice, more sweet than earthly music’s thrill,Spake to the captive’s heart—be patient, still.Behold how meekly mercy’s palm to winHe suffered for thy sake, who had no sin,As on His Father’s throne by suffering gained,At length He sitteth, so thy soul, unchainedBy patience and long faith, at last shall boundInto Eternal Life, and be with glory crown’d.
MISS GREENFIELD.
Tortured to death by lash-inflicted wound;His head bowed down, and sunk upon the ground;Sad was his soul, oppress’d by heavy care.Far, far from his home, his heart—deep, dark despair:When lo! a vision broke before his sight,A vision holy, beautiful, and bright;The thorn-crown’d brow, with calm pale look resignedOf one who suffered for mankind.
A voice, more sweet than earthly music’s thrill,Spake to the captive’s heart—be patient, still.Behold how meekly mercy’s palm to winHe suffered for thy sake, who had no sin,As on His Father’s throne by suffering gained,At length He sitteth, so thy soul, unchainedBy patience and long faith, at last shall boundInto Eternal Life, and be with glory crown’d.
Air—“LES DIAMANS DE LA COURONNE.”—Auber.
MISS LOUISA PYNE.
Ah! je veux briser ma chaîne,Disait le bel Ivan!Tu causes trop de peine,Amour, va-t’ en!Il s’envolait déjà,Ivan le rappela,Ah! ah! ah! ah! ah!Qui le maudit, toujours y reviendra.
Ah! je veux briser ma chaîne,Disait le bel Ivan!Tu causes trop de peine,Amour, va-t’ en!Il s’envolait déjà,Ivan le rappela,Ah! ah! ah! ah! ah!Qui le maudit, toujours y reviendra.
Ah! je veux briser ma chaîne,Disait le bel Ivan!Tu causes trop de peine,Amour, va-t’ en!Il s’envolait déjà,Ivan le rappela,Ah! ah! ah! ah! ah!Qui le maudit, toujours y reviendra.
Solo Tenor Sax Tuba.—Distin.
Scena.—“JOAN OF ARC IN PRISON.”—Lindsay Sloper.
MISS DOLBY.
’Tis midnight dark—all lonely in her sorrow,The warrior maiden in her dungeon lies;Not only visions of the fearful morrowTraced as by lightning gleams before her eyes,But dreams come round her of a day more golden,Fond memories of a happy peasant time,Sweet as the melody of ballad olden,The tune of birds, the cheerful hamlet-chime.Oh, mine own fountain! in the glade up-springing,For ever cool beneath the tender leaves,Amid the murmur of thy waters ringing,The fairies talked with me on summer eves;No more—no more to bathe my burning brow—How much I love thee now!O, mine old father, by my fortune saddened,Like autumn field destroyed by sudden blight;Well hath thy homely love my childhood gladdenedOn many an April morn and winter night!Farewell!—farewell!—thou canst not hear me vowHow much I love thee now!No more of dreaming in the leafy forest—The scaffold and the pile are set for me;No more kind smiles, when my heart needs them sorest.The mocking crowd are all I now shall see;Can I not ’scape and hide me? Will no eyePity my youth?—no ear receive my cry?—Hark! I am heard! Mine angel voices near me,With seraph-clarions through the darkness cheer me!They bid me once again the armour wearOf faith immortal, won by lowly prayer;And I will triumph o’er my great despair,And lift my eyes to Heaven, and nobly die!Thou gavest me the battle swordBy which the foe did fall;Thou gavest me the crown, O Lord!To crown me King withal!And now Thou givest me the chainMy feeble frame upon,Because the mortal was too vainOf deeds thine hand had done!But thou wilt give me, soon, the palmOf triumph o’er despair,That, safe in Thine eternal calm,Thy glorious angels wear!—Wilt stand beside me in the fire,Though keen its torture be;And, when the curling flames aspire,Take up my soul to Thee!
’Tis midnight dark—all lonely in her sorrow,The warrior maiden in her dungeon lies;Not only visions of the fearful morrowTraced as by lightning gleams before her eyes,But dreams come round her of a day more golden,Fond memories of a happy peasant time,Sweet as the melody of ballad olden,The tune of birds, the cheerful hamlet-chime.Oh, mine own fountain! in the glade up-springing,For ever cool beneath the tender leaves,Amid the murmur of thy waters ringing,The fairies talked with me on summer eves;No more—no more to bathe my burning brow—How much I love thee now!O, mine old father, by my fortune saddened,Like autumn field destroyed by sudden blight;Well hath thy homely love my childhood gladdenedOn many an April morn and winter night!Farewell!—farewell!—thou canst not hear me vowHow much I love thee now!No more of dreaming in the leafy forest—The scaffold and the pile are set for me;No more kind smiles, when my heart needs them sorest.The mocking crowd are all I now shall see;Can I not ’scape and hide me? Will no eyePity my youth?—no ear receive my cry?—Hark! I am heard! Mine angel voices near me,With seraph-clarions through the darkness cheer me!They bid me once again the armour wearOf faith immortal, won by lowly prayer;And I will triumph o’er my great despair,And lift my eyes to Heaven, and nobly die!Thou gavest me the battle swordBy which the foe did fall;Thou gavest me the crown, O Lord!To crown me King withal!And now Thou givest me the chainMy feeble frame upon,Because the mortal was too vainOf deeds thine hand had done!But thou wilt give me, soon, the palmOf triumph o’er despair,That, safe in Thine eternal calm,Thy glorious angels wear!—Wilt stand beside me in the fire,Though keen its torture be;And, when the curling flames aspire,Take up my soul to Thee!
’Tis midnight dark—all lonely in her sorrow,The warrior maiden in her dungeon lies;Not only visions of the fearful morrowTraced as by lightning gleams before her eyes,But dreams come round her of a day more golden,Fond memories of a happy peasant time,Sweet as the melody of ballad olden,The tune of birds, the cheerful hamlet-chime.
Oh, mine own fountain! in the glade up-springing,For ever cool beneath the tender leaves,Amid the murmur of thy waters ringing,The fairies talked with me on summer eves;No more—no more to bathe my burning brow—How much I love thee now!
O, mine old father, by my fortune saddened,Like autumn field destroyed by sudden blight;Well hath thy homely love my childhood gladdenedOn many an April morn and winter night!Farewell!—farewell!—thou canst not hear me vowHow much I love thee now!
No more of dreaming in the leafy forest—The scaffold and the pile are set for me;No more kind smiles, when my heart needs them sorest.The mocking crowd are all I now shall see;Can I not ’scape and hide me? Will no eyePity my youth?—no ear receive my cry?—
Hark! I am heard! Mine angel voices near me,With seraph-clarions through the darkness cheer me!They bid me once again the armour wearOf faith immortal, won by lowly prayer;And I will triumph o’er my great despair,And lift my eyes to Heaven, and nobly die!
Thou gavest me the battle swordBy which the foe did fall;Thou gavest me the crown, O Lord!To crown me King withal!And now Thou givest me the chainMy feeble frame upon,Because the mortal was too vainOf deeds thine hand had done!But thou wilt give me, soon, the palmOf triumph o’er despair,That, safe in Thine eternal calm,Thy glorious angels wear!—Wilt stand beside me in the fire,Though keen its torture be;And, when the curling flames aspire,Take up my soul to Thee!
Overture.—“FRA DIAVOLO.”—Auber.
PART II.
Grand Duett for two Pianofortes.—Osborn.
MRS. HENRY THOMPSON AND MISS ROSINA BENTLEY.
German Song.—“MY HEART’S ON THE RHINE.”—Speyer.
HERR PISCHEK.
My heart’s on the Rhine, near my youth’s early home,My heart’s on the Rhine wheresoever I roam;No river, no country, in all the wide world,Can match with the Rhine and the land of my birth.Amid the gay dance or when sparkles the wine,Still wherever I am, my heart’s on the Rhine.I think with delight on thy broad golden stream,Thy vineyards that smile ’neath the sun’s glowing beam;Thy castles that frown from the rock’s dizzy height,Thy warriors so brave and thy maidens so bright.My dear native land, may all blessings be thine,Wheresoever I roam, my heart’s on the Rhine.My heart’s on the Rhine, near my youth’s early home,My heart’s on the Rhine wheresoever I roam.
My heart’s on the Rhine, near my youth’s early home,My heart’s on the Rhine wheresoever I roam;No river, no country, in all the wide world,Can match with the Rhine and the land of my birth.Amid the gay dance or when sparkles the wine,Still wherever I am, my heart’s on the Rhine.I think with delight on thy broad golden stream,Thy vineyards that smile ’neath the sun’s glowing beam;Thy castles that frown from the rock’s dizzy height,Thy warriors so brave and thy maidens so bright.My dear native land, may all blessings be thine,Wheresoever I roam, my heart’s on the Rhine.My heart’s on the Rhine, near my youth’s early home,My heart’s on the Rhine wheresoever I roam.
My heart’s on the Rhine, near my youth’s early home,My heart’s on the Rhine wheresoever I roam;No river, no country, in all the wide world,Can match with the Rhine and the land of my birth.Amid the gay dance or when sparkles the wine,Still wherever I am, my heart’s on the Rhine.
I think with delight on thy broad golden stream,Thy vineyards that smile ’neath the sun’s glowing beam;Thy castles that frown from the rock’s dizzy height,Thy warriors so brave and thy maidens so bright.My dear native land, may all blessings be thine,Wheresoever I roam, my heart’s on the Rhine.My heart’s on the Rhine, near my youth’s early home,My heart’s on the Rhine wheresoever I roam.
Duetto.—“TUTTO DI TE SOLECITTO.”—Donizetti.
MISS LOUISA PYNE AND SIGNOR GARDONI.
Ballad.—“SWEET HOME.”—Wrighton.
MISS STABBACH.
The dearest spot on earth to meIs home, sweet home;The fairy land I long to seeIs home, sweet home.There how charm’d the sense of hearing,There where love is so endearing,All the world is not so cheeringAs home, sweet home.I’ve taught my heart the way to prizeMy home, sweet home;I’ve learned to look with lover’s eyesOn home, sweet home.There where vows are truly plighted,There where hearts are so united,All the world besides I’ve slighted,For home, sweet home.
The dearest spot on earth to meIs home, sweet home;The fairy land I long to seeIs home, sweet home.There how charm’d the sense of hearing,There where love is so endearing,All the world is not so cheeringAs home, sweet home.I’ve taught my heart the way to prizeMy home, sweet home;I’ve learned to look with lover’s eyesOn home, sweet home.There where vows are truly plighted,There where hearts are so united,All the world besides I’ve slighted,For home, sweet home.
The dearest spot on earth to meIs home, sweet home;The fairy land I long to seeIs home, sweet home.
There how charm’d the sense of hearing,There where love is so endearing,All the world is not so cheeringAs home, sweet home.
I’ve taught my heart the way to prizeMy home, sweet home;I’ve learned to look with lover’s eyesOn home, sweet home.
There where vows are truly plighted,There where hearts are so united,All the world besides I’ve slighted,For home, sweet home.
Fantasia.—(Violoncello.)—Piatti.
Aria—“ERNANI, ERNANI, INVOLAMI.”—Verdi.
MRS. WOKIE.Sortie è la notte, e Silva non ritorna!Ah, non tornasse ei piû!Questo odiato veglio,Che quale immon pospettro ognor m’inseguCol favellar d’ amore,Più sempre Ernani mi configge in core.Ernani! Ernani, involami,All’ abborrito amplesso.Fuggiam—se teco vivereMi sia d’ amor concesso.Per antri e lande inospiteTi seguirà il mio piè.Un Eden di delizia.Saran quegli antri a me.Tutto sprezzo che d’ ErnaniNon favella a questo core,Non v’ ha gamma che in amorePossa l’ odio tramotar,Vola, o tempo, e presto recaDi mia fuga il lieto istanteVola, o tempo, al core amante.
MRS. WOKIE.Sortie è la notte, e Silva non ritorna!Ah, non tornasse ei piû!Questo odiato veglio,Che quale immon pospettro ognor m’inseguCol favellar d’ amore,Più sempre Ernani mi configge in core.Ernani! Ernani, involami,All’ abborrito amplesso.Fuggiam—se teco vivereMi sia d’ amor concesso.Per antri e lande inospiteTi seguirà il mio piè.Un Eden di delizia.Saran quegli antri a me.Tutto sprezzo che d’ ErnaniNon favella a questo core,Non v’ ha gamma che in amorePossa l’ odio tramotar,Vola, o tempo, e presto recaDi mia fuga il lieto istanteVola, o tempo, al core amante.
MRS. WOKIE.
Sortie è la notte, e Silva non ritorna!Ah, non tornasse ei piû!Questo odiato veglio,Che quale immon pospettro ognor m’inseguCol favellar d’ amore,Più sempre Ernani mi configge in core.Ernani! Ernani, involami,All’ abborrito amplesso.Fuggiam—se teco vivereMi sia d’ amor concesso.Per antri e lande inospiteTi seguirà il mio piè.Un Eden di delizia.Saran quegli antri a me.Tutto sprezzo che d’ ErnaniNon favella a questo core,Non v’ ha gamma che in amorePossa l’ odio tramotar,Vola, o tempo, e presto recaDi mia fuga il lieto istanteVola, o tempo, al core amante.
A FIRE-SIDE SONG.—Wallace.
MISS GREENFIELD.When the children are asleep,And the early stars retire,What a pleasant world comes backIn the toil of day forgot;And the shadows of the pastHow they gather round the fireWith the friends beloved in years,When the fear of death was not.Then we see the haw thorn hedgeNewly silvered o’er by May,And the ash tree lithe and tall,Where the mavis loved to sing;And the orchard on the slope,With its rosy apples gay;And the elder dark with fruitThat was mirrored in the spring,When the children are asleep.And the angels of our youth,That so long in death are cold,They are calling us againWith their voices mild and low,Till our minds refuse to dwellBy the coffin in the mould,And arise with them to heaven,Where in glory they are now—And arise with them to heaven.Then with thoughts at rest at eve,Be so ever hard the day,On our spirits cometh down,A contentment calm and deep,A better than the joysOf the noisy and the gay,Is our quiet hour of dreams,When the children are asleep.
MISS GREENFIELD.When the children are asleep,And the early stars retire,What a pleasant world comes backIn the toil of day forgot;And the shadows of the pastHow they gather round the fireWith the friends beloved in years,When the fear of death was not.Then we see the haw thorn hedgeNewly silvered o’er by May,And the ash tree lithe and tall,Where the mavis loved to sing;And the orchard on the slope,With its rosy apples gay;And the elder dark with fruitThat was mirrored in the spring,When the children are asleep.And the angels of our youth,That so long in death are cold,They are calling us againWith their voices mild and low,Till our minds refuse to dwellBy the coffin in the mould,And arise with them to heaven,Where in glory they are now—And arise with them to heaven.Then with thoughts at rest at eve,Be so ever hard the day,On our spirits cometh down,A contentment calm and deep,A better than the joysOf the noisy and the gay,Is our quiet hour of dreams,When the children are asleep.
MISS GREENFIELD.
When the children are asleep,And the early stars retire,What a pleasant world comes backIn the toil of day forgot;And the shadows of the pastHow they gather round the fireWith the friends beloved in years,When the fear of death was not.
Then we see the haw thorn hedgeNewly silvered o’er by May,And the ash tree lithe and tall,Where the mavis loved to sing;And the orchard on the slope,With its rosy apples gay;And the elder dark with fruitThat was mirrored in the spring,When the children are asleep.
And the angels of our youth,That so long in death are cold,They are calling us againWith their voices mild and low,Till our minds refuse to dwellBy the coffin in the mould,And arise with them to heaven,Where in glory they are now—And arise with them to heaven.
Then with thoughts at rest at eve,Be so ever hard the day,On our spirits cometh down,A contentment calm and deep,A better than the joysOf the noisy and the gay,Is our quiet hour of dreams,When the children are asleep.
Solo.—“CONTRA BASSO.”—Bottessini.
Song.—“THE STANDARD BEARER.”—Lindpainter.
HERR PISCHEK.Where floats the standard o’er the tented plain,His lonely watch the minstrel knight is keeping,And thus beguiles the time with tuneful strain,His silver lute with mailed finger sweeping,The lady of my love I do not name,I dare not hope my love can be requited;Yet I will fight for liberty and fame,Beneath the banner where my vows were plighted,Beneath the banner where my vows were plighted.The night is gone, the battle comes with day,—Behold the bard, surrounding foes defying;Red carnage marks his presence in the fray,While still he sings, amid the dead and dying,The lady of my love I may not name,I dare not hope my love can be requited;Then let me die for liberty and fame,Beneath the banner where my vows were plighted,Beneath the banner where my vows were plighted.The fight is won; death sated quits the field,—Yet still the faithful bard, while life is fleeting,Expiring, lies upon his gory shield,This dying note with feeble voice repeating,The lady of my love I do not name,In heaven above we yet may be united;I fought and fell for liberty and fame,Beneath the banner where my vows were plighted,Beneath the banner where my vows were plighted.
HERR PISCHEK.Where floats the standard o’er the tented plain,His lonely watch the minstrel knight is keeping,And thus beguiles the time with tuneful strain,His silver lute with mailed finger sweeping,The lady of my love I do not name,I dare not hope my love can be requited;Yet I will fight for liberty and fame,Beneath the banner where my vows were plighted,Beneath the banner where my vows were plighted.The night is gone, the battle comes with day,—Behold the bard, surrounding foes defying;Red carnage marks his presence in the fray,While still he sings, amid the dead and dying,The lady of my love I may not name,I dare not hope my love can be requited;Then let me die for liberty and fame,Beneath the banner where my vows were plighted,Beneath the banner where my vows were plighted.The fight is won; death sated quits the field,—Yet still the faithful bard, while life is fleeting,Expiring, lies upon his gory shield,This dying note with feeble voice repeating,The lady of my love I do not name,In heaven above we yet may be united;I fought and fell for liberty and fame,Beneath the banner where my vows were plighted,Beneath the banner where my vows were plighted.
HERR PISCHEK.
Where floats the standard o’er the tented plain,His lonely watch the minstrel knight is keeping,And thus beguiles the time with tuneful strain,His silver lute with mailed finger sweeping,The lady of my love I do not name,I dare not hope my love can be requited;Yet I will fight for liberty and fame,Beneath the banner where my vows were plighted,Beneath the banner where my vows were plighted.
The night is gone, the battle comes with day,—Behold the bard, surrounding foes defying;Red carnage marks his presence in the fray,While still he sings, amid the dead and dying,The lady of my love I may not name,I dare not hope my love can be requited;Then let me die for liberty and fame,Beneath the banner where my vows were plighted,Beneath the banner where my vows were plighted.
The fight is won; death sated quits the field,—Yet still the faithful bard, while life is fleeting,Expiring, lies upon his gory shield,This dying note with feeble voice repeating,The lady of my love I do not name,In heaven above we yet may be united;I fought and fell for liberty and fame,Beneath the banner where my vows were plighted,Beneath the banner where my vows were plighted.
Scotch Song.—“HEIGH HO, JANET.”—Dolby.
MISS DOLBY.They’re wild with joy in Edinbro’, they’re feastin’ in Dundee,And a’ because my bonnie lad is coming hame to me;He’s coming o’er the salt sea, with a’ his noble train,And Royal Charlie sure shall hae the throne again.Heigh ho! Janet go, pit your wheelie past;The lad we dearly luve is coming hame at last.Oh! gin I had in Scotland’s bank twalve hunderd thousand poun’s,I gie it all to see my Charlie marching through the town;Wi’ pibrochs loudly sounding, and banners waving high,All hearts resolved to conquer in his cause or die.Heigh ho! Janet go, spin na mair the day;He’s coming that’s mair welcome than the flowers in May.Heigh ho! Janet go, pit your wheelie past;The bonnie lad we luve is coming hame at last.
MISS DOLBY.They’re wild with joy in Edinbro’, they’re feastin’ in Dundee,And a’ because my bonnie lad is coming hame to me;He’s coming o’er the salt sea, with a’ his noble train,And Royal Charlie sure shall hae the throne again.Heigh ho! Janet go, pit your wheelie past;The lad we dearly luve is coming hame at last.Oh! gin I had in Scotland’s bank twalve hunderd thousand poun’s,I gie it all to see my Charlie marching through the town;Wi’ pibrochs loudly sounding, and banners waving high,All hearts resolved to conquer in his cause or die.Heigh ho! Janet go, spin na mair the day;He’s coming that’s mair welcome than the flowers in May.Heigh ho! Janet go, pit your wheelie past;The bonnie lad we luve is coming hame at last.
MISS DOLBY.
They’re wild with joy in Edinbro’, they’re feastin’ in Dundee,And a’ because my bonnie lad is coming hame to me;He’s coming o’er the salt sea, with a’ his noble train,And Royal Charlie sure shall hae the throne again.Heigh ho! Janet go, pit your wheelie past;The lad we dearly luve is coming hame at last.
Oh! gin I had in Scotland’s bank twalve hunderd thousand poun’s,I gie it all to see my Charlie marching through the town;Wi’ pibrochs loudly sounding, and banners waving high,All hearts resolved to conquer in his cause or die.Heigh ho! Janet go, spin na mair the day;He’s coming that’s mair welcome than the flowers in May.Heigh ho! Janet go, pit your wheelie past;The bonnie lad we luve is coming hame at last.
Song.—“WHEN STARS ARE IN THE QUIET SKY.”
MISS GREENFIELD.When stars are in the quiet skies,Then must I pine for thee,Bend on me, then, thy tender eyes,As stars look on the sea,For thoughts like waves that glide by nightAre stillest when they shine;Bend on me, then, thy tender eyes,As stars look on the seas.There is an hour, when angels keepFamiliar watch o’er men,When scores of souls are wrapt in sleep;Sweet spirit, meet me then.There is an hour when holy dreams,Whose fairest spirit glide,And in that mystic hour it seems,Thou should’st be by my side.
MISS GREENFIELD.When stars are in the quiet skies,Then must I pine for thee,Bend on me, then, thy tender eyes,As stars look on the sea,For thoughts like waves that glide by nightAre stillest when they shine;Bend on me, then, thy tender eyes,As stars look on the seas.There is an hour, when angels keepFamiliar watch o’er men,When scores of souls are wrapt in sleep;Sweet spirit, meet me then.There is an hour when holy dreams,Whose fairest spirit glide,And in that mystic hour it seems,Thou should’st be by my side.
MISS GREENFIELD.
When stars are in the quiet skies,Then must I pine for thee,Bend on me, then, thy tender eyes,As stars look on the sea,For thoughts like waves that glide by nightAre stillest when they shine;Bend on me, then, thy tender eyes,As stars look on the seas.
There is an hour, when angels keepFamiliar watch o’er men,When scores of souls are wrapt in sleep;Sweet spirit, meet me then.There is an hour when holy dreams,Whose fairest spirit glide,And in that mystic hour it seems,Thou should’st be by my side.
Finale.—“WEDDING MARCH.”—Mendelssohn.
In July she gave two grand concerts in the Town Hall in Brighton, under the patronage of her grace the Duchess of Sutherland, her grace the Duchess of Norfolk, her grace the Duchess of Beaufort, her grace the Duchess of Argyll, the most noble the Marchioness of Ailesbury, the most noble the Marchioness of Kildare, the most noble the Marquis of Lansdown, the Earl and Countess of Shaftesbury, the Earl of Carlisle, the Countess of Jersey, the Countess of Granville, the countess of Wilton, the Viscountess Palmerston, the lady Constance Grosvenor, and Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe.
Vocalists.—Miss E. T. Greenfield, (the Black Swan,) Madam Taccani, Countess Tasca, Mr. Emanuel Roberts, (Queen’s concerts.)
Instrumentalists.—Piano-forte soloist, Miss Rosina Bentley, (Pupil of Miss Kate Loder,) violin, M. de Valadares, (pupil of the conservatoire, Paris.) Accompanist, Mons. Edouard Henri, conductor, Mr. F. Theseus Stevens.
She gave a series of concerts at the Rotunda in Dublin, Ireland.
Programme of MissGreenfield’sbenefit concert, August 17th, 1853.
Vocalists.—Miss Louisa Pyne, Miss Pyne, and Mr. W. Harrison,—Pianist, Miss Rosina Bentley,—Violinist, M. de Valadares from the East Indies,—Accompanyist, Mr. R. Thomas.
In October, 1853, we find her again at the Beaumont Institution, Beaumont square, Mile-end, London,—at Mr. Cotton’s Concert, supported by Miss Greenfield, Miss Poole, the Misses M’Alpine, Miss Alleyne, Mr. Augustus Braham, Mr. Suchet Champion, Mr. Charles Cotton, the German Glee Union, and the East Indian Violinist, M. de Valadares.
Conductor, Herr Ganz.
October, 1853, at the hall of the Golden Lion Hotel, Stirling, under the special patronage of Colonel Maxwell and the officers of her Majesty’s eighty-second regiment.
Artists.—Miss Louisa Pyne, Miss Pyne, Miss E. T. Greenfield.—Pianist, Miss Rosina Bentley,—Violinist, M. de Valadares.
Grand duo Concertante,—Piano-forte and violin,—(Gulielmo Tell.)—(Miss Rosina Bentley and M. De Valadares,) Osborne and Beriot.
Cradle song,—“Sleep and rest,”—(Miss Greenfield,)
Grand scena,—“All is lost,” “Still so gently,”—(La Somnambula,)—(Mr. W. Harrison,)
Air and variations,—“Cease your funning,”—(Miss Louisa Pyne,)
Grand variations,—Piano-forte,—“The Cracovienne,”—(Miss Bentley,)
Duett,—“I am free,”—(written expressly for Miss Greenfield,)—Stephen Glover.
Glee,—“Ye spotted snakes,”—Miss Louisa Pyne, Miss Pyne, Miss Greenfield, and Mr. W. Harrison.
Duett,—“O Maritina,”—(Miss Louisa Pyne, and Mr. W. Harrison,)
Scotch Ballad,—“Annie Laurie,”—Miss Pyne.
Ballad,—Home, sweet Home,—(Miss Greenfield,)
Solo, Violin,—“Carnival de Venice,”
Ballad,—“Remember Me,”—(Mr. W. Harrison.)
Ballad,—“The Summer Night,”—(Miss Louisa Pyne,)
Song,—“When Stars are in the quiet Sky,”—(Miss Greenfield.)
Duett,—“I know a bank,”—(The Misses Pyne,)
Nov. 3. 1853,—at Albion Hall, Hammersmith, she made her appearance, under the patronage of her grace, the Duchess of Sutherland, her grace the Duchess of Norfolk, her grace the Duchess of Beaufort, her grace the Duchess of Argyll, the most noble the Marchioness of Aylesbury, the most noble the Marchioness of Kildare, the most noble the Marquis of Lansdowne, Earl and Countess of Shaftsbury, Earl of Carlisle, Countess of Jersey, Countess of Granville, Countess of Wilton, Viscountess Palmerston, the Lady Constance Grosvenor, and Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe.
Artists,—Miss E. T. Greenfield, Miss J. Brougham, Miss E. Brougham, Mr. Charles Cotton, Mr. Augustus Braham, the eminent Tenor,—Piano-forte, Miss Eliza Ward.
At the Theatre Royal, Lincoln, Dec. 23, 1853,—under the same distinguished patronage as at Hammersmith.
Artists,—Mrs. Alexander Newton (of her Majesty’s Grand National Concerts,) Miss Ward, Miss E. T. Greenfield, Mr. Augustus Braham, Mr. Charles Cotton (from Milan,) Mr. Distin.
Again to verify the fact of her having received the attention of very distinguished personages, the following certificates are laid before the reader:—