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Welcome to Hyperion Records, an independent British classical label devoted to presenting high-quality recordings of music of all styles and from all periods from the twelfth century to the twenty-first.
Hyperion offers both CDs, and downloads in a number of formats. The site is also available in several languages.
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The Princess look’d forth from her maiden bow’r. The horn of a herd-boy rang up from below. ‘Oh, cease from thy playing, and haunt me no more, Nor fetter my fancy that freely would soar, When the sun goes down.’
The Princess look’d forth from her maiden bow’r. But mute was the horn that had call’d from below. ‘Oh, why art thou silent? Beguile me once more. Give wings to my fancy that freely would soar, When the sun goes down.’
The Princess look’d forth from her maiden bow’r. The call of the horn rose again from below. She wept in the twilight and bitterly sighed: ‘What is it I long for? God help me!’ she cried. And the sun went down.
Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson (1832-1910) Prinsessen sad højt i sit Jomfrubur English: Fanny S Copeland
Young Venevil ran with her heart on fire To her lover so dear, to her lover so dear. She sang till she made all the church bells ring: ‘Good day, good day, good day, good day!’ And all the little songbirds Made answer to her song: ‘Midsummer day’s for laughter and play. Take care, little Venevil, your garland’s going astray.’
She wove him a garland of flowers blue: ‘As my eyes so blue, my love, for you.’ He took it, and tossed it o’er the hill: ‘Farewell, my sweet, my sweet, farewell.’ He laughed and ran like lightning; You hear his laughter still: ‘Midsummer day’s for laughter and play. Take care, little Venevil, your garland’s gone astray.’
Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson (1832-1910) Hun Venevil English: Sir Peter Pears
We wandered on Mayday morning In leafy forest green, So shady and so secret Where no one could be seen. The west wind whisper’d lightly, And all was fine and fair. Over our heads a blackbird Warbled a happy air.
I painted our life together In rainbow colours bright; Two merry eyes were watching And laughing with delight. But from the air above us Came a mocking sharp refrain. ‘Farewell’, we said, and parted, And never met again.
Now when I go and wander That forest all alone The music of the songbirds Can turn my heart to stone. The blackbird had remember’d Each word we said that day, And she has turn’d all our story Into a roundelay.
Now ev’ry bird can sing that song From ev’ry branch and tree, Of how we met in Maytime In leafy forest green.
Henrik Ibsen (1828-1906) Digte English: Sir Peter Pears