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Luister naar 'Parry: Scenes from Shelley's Prometheus Unbound, Blest Pair of Sirens' van London Mozart Players, William Vann, Sarah Fox, Dame Sarah Connolly, David Butt Philip, Neal Davies & Crouch End Festival Chorus
ALBUMParry: Scenes from Shelley's Prometheus Unbound, Blest Pair of SirensLondon Mozart Players, William Vann, Sarah Fox, Dame Sarah Connolly, David Butt Philip, Neal Davies & Crouch End Festival Chorus

Topsongs van Crouch End Festival Chorus

Credits

AUSFÜHRENDE KÜNSTLER:INNEN
Crouch End Festival Chorus
Crouch End Festival Chorus
Chor
London Mozart Players
London Mozart Players
Orchester
William Vann
William Vann
Dirigent:in
David Temple
David Temple
Chorleiter:in
James Orford
James Orford
Orgel
Simon Blendis
Simon Blendis
Leiter:in
KOMPOSITION UND LIEDTEXT
Sir Charles Hubert Parry
Sir Charles Hubert Parry
Komponist:in
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Texte
PRODUKTION UND TECHNIK
Jeremy Dibble
Jeremy Dibble
Schnitttechniker:in

Songteksten

Chorus of Furies
Prometheus!
Immortal Titan!
Champion of Heaven's slaves!
From the ends of the earth, from the ends of the earth,
Where the night has its grave, and the morning its birth,
Come, come, come!
Oh, ye who shake hills with the scream of your mirth,
34When cities sink howling in ruin; and ye
Who with wingless footsteps trample the sea,
And close upon Shipwreck and Famine's track,
Sit chattering with joy on the foodless wreck;
Come, come, come!
Leave the bed, low, cold, and red,
Strewed beneath a nation dead;
Leave the hatred, as in ashes
Fire is left for future burning:
It will burst in bloodier flashes
When ye stir it, soon returning:
Leave the self-contempt implanted
In young spirits, sense-enchanted,
Misery's yet unkindled fuel:
Leave Hell's secrets half unchanted
To the maniac dreamer; cruel
More than ye can be with hate
Is he with fear.
Come, come, come!
The pale stars of morn
Shine on a misery, dire to be borne.
Dost thou faint, mighty Titan? We laugh thee to scorn.
Joy, joy, joy!
Past ages crowd on thee, but each one remembers;
And the future is dark, and the present is spread
Like a pillow of thorns for thy slumberless head.
Written by: Percy Bysshe Shelley, Sir Charles Hubert Parry

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