Friday, July 11, 2014
The Best of Tchaikovsky
The Best of Tchaikovsky
Tracklist:
1. Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-Flat Minor Op. 23 - Allegro non troppo
2. Eugene Onegin Act III -- Polonaise ( 8:56 )
3. Symphony No. 6 in B Minor Pathetique - 1 mov. ( 14:00 )
4. Violin Concert in D Major Op. 35 - Andante ( 33:15 )
5. Slavonich March, in B-Flat Minor, Op. 31 ( 40:06 )
6. 1812 - Overture ( 50:50 )
7. The Nutcracker, Op. 71 -- Overture ( 1:06:46 )
8. The Nutcracker Op. 71 - Sugar Plum Fairies ( 1:10:13 )
9. The Nutcracker Op. 71 - Waltz of the Flowers ( 1:12:04 )
10. The Sleeping Beauty Op. 66 -- Overture ( 1:18:43 )
11. Swan Lake - Dances of the Swans ( 1:21:31 )
12. Swan Lake - Valse in A Major ( 1:30:17 )
13. Swan Lake - Scene from Act 2 ( 1:37:51 )
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Rabbi Ben Ezra by Robert Browning
Rabbi Ben Ezra
Grow
old along with me!
The
best is yet to be,
The
last of life, for which the first was made:
Our
times are in His hand
Who
saith "A whole I planned,
Youth
shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!''
跟我一起老去吧！
大好时光且行且近，
一切乃是命定的
我们的日子在神手上
他说：我掌管一切，
青春逝去只是上半时
相信神，雍容一些吧！
跟我一起老去吧！
大好时光且行且近，
一切乃是命定的
我们的日子在神手上
他说：我掌管一切，
青春逝去只是上半时
相信神，雍容一些吧！
Not
that, amassing flowers,
Youth
sighed "Which rose make ours,
Which
lily leave and then as best recall?"
Not
that, admiring stars,
It
yearned "Nor Jove, nor Mars;
Mine
be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!"
莫像那迷入花丛的青年
徒然伤叹：哪朵玫瑰正当时，
哪朵水仙曾艳压群芳？
更莫学那痴恋星座者:
不，木星； 不， 金星；
我的星运无边无际
莫像那迷入花丛的青年
徒然伤叹：哪朵玫瑰正当时，
哪朵水仙曾艳压群芳？
更莫学那痴恋星座者:
不，木星； 不， 金星；
我的星运无边无际
Not
for such hopes and fears
Annulling
youth's brief years,
Do
I remonstrate: folly wide the mark!
Rather
I prize the doubt
Low
kinds exist without,
Finished
and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.
Poor
vaunt of life indeed,
Were
man but formed to feed
On
joy, to solely seek and find and feast:
Such
feasting ended, then
As
sure an end to men;
Irks
care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?
Rejoice
we are allied
To
that which doth provide
And
not partake, effect and not receive!
A
spark disturbs our clod;
Nearer
we hold of God
Who
gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe.
Then,
welcome each rebuff
That
turns earth's smoothness rough,
Each
sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!
Be
our joys three-parts pain!
Strive,
and hold cheap the strain;
Learn,
nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!
For
thence,—a paradox
Which
comforts while it mocks,—
Shall
life succeed in that it seems to fail:
What
I aspired to be,
And
was not, comforts me:
A
brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale.
What
is he but a brute
Whose
flesh has soul to suit,
Whose
spirit works lest arms and legs want play?
To
man, propose this test—
Thy
body at its best,
How
far can that project thy soul on its lone way?
Yet
gifts should prove their use:
I
own the Past profuse
Of
power each side, perfection every turn:
Eyes,
ears took in their dole,
Brain
treasured up the whole;
Should
not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn?"
Not
once beat "Praise be Thine!
I
see the whole design,
I,
who saw power, see now love perfect too:
Perfect
I call Thy plan:
Thanks
that I was a man!
Maker,
remake, complete,—I trust what Thou shalt do!"
For
pleasant is this flesh;
Our
soul, in its rose-mesh
Pulled
ever to the earth, still yearns for rest;
Would
we some prize might hold
To
match those manifold
Possessions
of the brute,—gain most, as we did best!
Let
us not always say,
"Spite
of this flesh to-day
I
strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!"
As
the bird wings and sings,
Let
us cry "All good things
Are
ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!"
Therefore
I summon age
To
grant youth's heritage,
Life's
struggle having so far reached its term:
Thence
shall I pass, approved
A
man, for aye removed
From
the developed brute; a god though in the germ.
And
I shall thereupon
Take
rest, ere I be gone
Once
more on my adventure brave and new:
Fearless
and unperplexed,
When
I wage battle next,
What
weapons to select, what armor to induce.
Youth
ended, I shall try
My
gain or loss thereby;
Leave
the fire ashes, what survives is gold:
And
I shall weigh the same,
Give
life its praise or blame:
Young,
all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.
For
note, when evening shuts,
A
certain moment cuts
The
deed off, calls the glory from the grey:
A
whisper from the west
Shoots—"Add
this to the rest,
Take
it and try its worth: here dies another day."
So,
still within this life,
Though
lifted o'er its strife,
Let
me discern, compare, pronounce at last,
This
rage was right i' the main,
That
acquiescence vain:
The
Future I may face now I have proved the Past."
For
more is not reserved
To
man, with soul just nerved
To
act to-morrow what he learns to-day:
Here,
work enough to watch
The
Master work, and catch
Hints
of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play.
As
it was better, youth
Should
strive, through acts uncouth,
Toward
making, than repose on aught found made:
So,
better, age, exempt
From
strife, should know, than tempt
Further.
Thou waitedst age: wait death nor be afraid!
Enough
now, if the Right
And
Good and Infinite
Be
named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own
With
knowledge absolute,
Subject
to no dispute
From
fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone.
Be
there, for once and all,
Severed
great minds from small,
Announced
to each his station in the Past!
Was
I, the world arraigned,
Were
they, my soul disdained,
Right?
Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last!
Now,
who shall arbitrate?
Ten
men love what I hate,
Shun
what I follow, slight what I receive;
Ten,
who in ears and eyes
Match
me: we all surmise,
They
this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe?
Not
on the vulgar mass
Called
"work," must sentence pass,
Things
done, that took the eye and had the price;
O'er
which, from level stand,
The
low world laid its hand,
Found
straightway to its mind, could value in a trice:
But
all, the world's coarse thumb
And
finger failed to plumb,
So
passed in making up the main account;
All
instincts immature,
All
purposes unsure,
That
weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount:
Thoughts
hardly to be packed
Into
a narrow act,
Fancies
that broke through language and escaped;
All
I could never be,
All,
men ignored in me,
This,
I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.
Ay,
note that Potter's wheel,
That
metaphor! and feel
Why
time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,—
Thou,
to whom fools propound,
When
the wine makes its round,
"Since
life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!"
Fool!
All that is, at all,
Lasts
ever, past recall;
Earth
changes, but thy soul and God stand sure:
What
entered into thee,
That was, is, and shall be:
Time's
wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure.
He
fixed thee mid this dance
Of
plastic circumstance,
This
Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest:
Machinery
just meant
To
give thy soul its bent,
Try
thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed.
What
though the earlier grooves,
Which
ran the laughing loves
Around
thy base, no longer pause and press?
What
though, about thy rim,
Skull-things
in order grim
Grow
out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress?
Look
not thou down but up!
To
uses of a cup,
The
festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal,
The
new wine's foaming flow,
The
Master's lips a-glow!
Thou,
heaven's consummate cup, what need'st thou with earth's wheel?
But
I need, now as then,
Thee,
God, who mouldest men;
And
since, not even while the whirl was worst,
Did
I,—to the wheel of life
With
shapes and colors rife,
Bound
dizzily,—mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst:
So,
take and use Thy work:
Amend
what flaws may lurk,
What
strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim!
My
times be in Thy hand!
Perfect
the cup as planned!
Let
age approve of youth, and death complete the same!
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Wieniawski / Igor Oistrakh, 1955: Violin Concerto No. 2 in D minor - Com...
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