TOWN British Choral Music From Parry To Dyson

An Imperishable Heritage:
British Choral Music from

Parry to Dyson
To my wife, Denise
and
In Memoriam
Archie Town
(13 June 1913–10 September 1996)
Mary Jo (Jones) Town

(13 December 1923–30 September 1984)
An Imperishable Heritage:
British Choral Music from
Parry to Dyson
A Study of Selected Works
Stephen Town
Northwest Missouri State University, USA
© Stephen Town 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher.
Stephen Town has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to
be identified as the author of this work.
Published by
Ashgate Publishing Limited Ashgate Publishing Company
Wey Court East Suite 420
Union Road 101 Cherry Street
Farnham Burlington
Surrey, GU9 7PT VT 05401-4405
England USA
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British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

Town, Stephen.
An Imperishable Heritage: British Choral Music from Parry to Dyson : A Study of
Selected Works.
1. Choral music – Great Britain – 20th century. 2. Choral music – Great Britain –
19th century. I. Title
782.5’0941-dc23
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Town, Stephen, 1952–
An Imperishable Heritage: British Choral Music from Parry to Dyson: A Study of
Selected Works / Stephen Town.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Choral music – Great Britain – 20th century. 2. Choral music – Great Britain –
19th century. I. Title. II. Title: British choral music from Parry to Dyson.
ML1531.T68 2012
782.50941 – dc23 2011052208
Bach musicological font developed by © Yo Tomita
ISBN 9780754605362 (hbk)

ISBN 9781409448792 (ebk)
V
Contents
List of Chapter Appendices vii

List of Tables ix
List of Figures xi
List of Music Examples xiii
Preface xvii
Acknowledgments xxiii
1 Hubert Parry and The Vision of Life Reconsidered: “And we

are faint with longing to hear the message clearly” 1
2 Voces Clamantium and Beyond These Voices There Is Peace: The

Embodiment of Parry’s Character Polarities 37
3 Two Versions of The Three Holy Children by Charles Stanford:

Context, Design, and Extant Scores 61
4 Elegiac Ode by Charles Stanford: An Inspired Setting, Influential

Exemplar, and Filial Tribute 87
5 Flos Campi by Ralph Vaughan Williams: “From

Raw
Intimations to Homogeneous Experience” 105
6 “The light we sought is shining still”: An Oxford Elegy by

Ralph Vaughan Williams 135
7 “So great a beauty on these English fields”: Requiem da Camera

and Gerald Finzi (1901–1956) 177
8 “The visionary gleam”: Gerald Finzi, Ralph Vaughan Williams,

and Intimations of Immortality 197
9 Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra by Edmund Rubbra 217
10 The Morning Watch, Op. 55 by Edmund Rubbra 247
11 “A home of unfading splendour”: Quo Vadis by George Dyson

(1883–1964) 263
vi An Imperishable Heritage: British Choral Music from Parry to Dyson
12 George Dyson’s Nebuchadnezzar and the Stimulus of Parry,

Stanford, and Walton 287
Afterword 299
Bibliography 305
Index 319
List of Chapter Appendices
1 Text of The Vision of Life (1907/revised 1914)

by Hubert Parry 23
2 A Transcription of Parry’s Outline of Beyond These Voices

There Is Peace 57
3 Text of The Three Holy Children (1885/revised 1902)

by Charles Stanford 77
5 Revisions to the Autograph Full Score of Flos Campi

by Ralph Vaughan Williams 127
6.1 The Scholar-Gipsy and Thyrsis by Matthew Arnold as Set

by Ralph Vaughan Williams 158
6.2 Catalogue Entries and Descriptions of Harnham Down

and An Oxford Elegy 170
7 Description of the Requiem da Camera Manuscripts 191
8 William Wordsworth’s Intimations of Immortality

as Set by Gerald Finzi 211
9 Description of Sinfonia Sacra Autographs 241

This page has been left blank intentionally
List of Tables
2.1 Voces Clamantium: summary motivic and tonal chart 41
2.2 Beyond These Voices There Is Peace: summary motivic

and tonal chart 51
3.1 The Three Holy Children: chart of tonal areas and themes 75
9.1 Sinfonia Sacra schema 230

List of Figures
1.1 The Vision of Life (1907), full score, GB-Lcm Add. 4213, p. 1 15
1.2 The Vision of Life (1914), full score, GB-Lcm Add. 4213, p. 209 16
2.1 Letter to F.G. Edwards containing Parry’s Outline of Beyond

These Voices There Is Peace, GB-Lbl Add. MS. 41570, fol. 21r 48
3.1 The Three Holy Children (1885), full score, GB-Lcm Add. 4162,
fol. 208v 66
5.1 Vaughan Williams’s Bible, GB-Lbl Add. MS. 63850, p. 569 115
5.2 Flos Campi, GB-Lbl Dep. 2003/22, pp. 56, 57, and 58 120
6.1 Harnham Down, full score, GB-Lbl Add. MS. 57278,

fols 42r–43v 138
10.1 The Morning Watch, germinal unit, GB-Lbl Add. MS. 62662,
fol. 34r 254
10.2 The Morning Watch, sketch without initial choral entrance,

GB-Lbl Add. MS. 62662, fol. 37v 255
List of Music Examples
1.1 The Vision of Life by Hubert Parry, introduction, motifs a and b

(vocal score; Novello, 1907), p. 1 10
1.2 The Vision of Life by Hubert Parry, “We sing the quest of the
soul of man” (vocal score; Novello, 1907), p. 102 18
1.3 The Vision of Life by Hubert Parry, “Awake, ye that live in

darkness” (vocal score; Novello, 1914), p. 102 20
2.1 Voces Clamantium by Hubert Parry, introduction, orchestral motif

2.2 Beyond These Voices There is Peace by Hubert Parry, motifs a, b, c,

and d (vocal score; Novello, 1908), pp. 1–2 49
3.1 The Three Holy Children by Charles Stanford, “As for the images
of the heathen” (Trio) (vocal score; Stanley Lucas, 1885), p. 97 68
3.2 The Three Holy Children by Charles Stanford, “As for the gods
of the heathen” (Trio revised) (vocal score; Boosey, 1902), p. 93 69
3.3 The Three Holy Children by Charles Stanford, “Blessed art thou”
(Tenor aria) (vocal score; Stanley Lucas, 1885), pp. 135–6 72
3.4 The Three Holy Children by Charles Stanford, “Blessed art thou”
(Tenor aria revised) (Boosey, 1902), p. 134 73
4.1 Elegiac Ode by Charles Stanford, introduction (vocal score;

Stanley Lucas, 1885), p. 2 96
4.2 Elegiac Ode by Charles Stanford, first movement, choral entrance

(vocal score; Stanley Lucas, 1885), p. 4 97
4.3 Elegiac Ode by Charles Stanford, third movement, beginning

(vocal score; Stanley Lucas, 1885), p. 26 100
6.1 Harnham Down by Ralph Vaughan Williams, motif c

(unpublished), mm. 13–16 142
xiv An Imperishable Heritage: British Choral Music from Parry to Dyson
6.2 Harnham Down by Ralph Vaughan Williams, motif e (unpublished),

mm. 25–30 143
6.3 An Oxford Elegy by Ralph Vaughan Williams, motifs a and b

(vocal score; Oxford, 1952), p. 2 146
6.4 An Oxford Elegy by Ralph Vaughan Williams, “causeway chill

moment” (vocal score; Oxford, 1952), p. 15 150
6.5 An Oxford Elegy by Ralph Vaughan Williams, fusion of the

two Arnold poems (vocal score; Oxford, 1952), p. 16 152
7.1 Requiem da Camera by Gerald Finzi, motif d (Banks, 1992), p. 10 183
7.2 Lord, Thou Hast Been Our Refuge by Ralph Vaughan Williams,
“Prosper Thou” (fugato) head-motif (G. Schirmer, 1921), p. 14 184
8.1 Intimations of Immortality by Gerald Finzi, motifs a and b (vocal

score; Boosey, 1950), mm. 1–13 201
8.2 Intimations of Immortality by Gerald Finzi, fusion of Wordsworth’s

poem (poetic shift in tone) (vocal score; Boosey, 1950),
pp. 44, 45, and 46 204
9.1 Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra by Edmund Rubbra, germinal

unit (vocal score; Alfred Lengnick, 1972), p. 1 230
9.2 Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra by Edmund Rubbra, Crux fidelis

hymn (vocal score; Alfred Lengnick, 1972), p. 5 235
9.3 Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra by Edmund Rubbra, “Crux” vocal

melisma (vocal score; Alfred Lengnick, 1972), p. 10 238
9.4 Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra by Edmund Rubbra, D-centric

passage (vocal score; Alfred Lengnick, 1972), p. 11 239
10.1 The Morning Watch by Edmund Rubbra, motifs a and b

(vocal score; Alfred Lengnick, 1946), p. 1 251
11.1 Quo Vadis by George Dyson, movement 1, motif x (vocal score;

Novello, 1939), p. 1 270
11.2 Quo Vadis by George Dyson, movement 7, “Come To Me, God”

List of Music Examples xv
11.3 Quo Vadis by George Dyson, movement 7, “In this world (the
Isle of Dreams)” (vocal score; Novello, 1949), pp. 119–20 279
11.4 Quo Vadis by George Dyson, movement seven, “My soul, there is a
country” (vocal score; Novello, 1949), p. 121 280
12.1 Nebuchadnezzar by George Dyson, motif a (vocal score;

Novello, 1935), p. 1 291
12.2 Nebuchadnezzar by George Dyson, brooding orchestral theme

(vocal score; Novello, 1935), rehearsal number 1/1–7, pp. 2–3 292
12.3 Nebuchadnezzar by George Dyson, majestic orchestral motif

(“the towering image”) (vocal score; Novello, 1935), rehearsal
number 4/1–4, p. 6 293
Preface
This book discusses the selected choral works of Hubert Parry, Charles Stanford,
Ralph Vaughan Williams, Gerald Finzi, Edmund Rubbra, and George Dyson.
The choice of genre reflects the foremost tradition of music in England over the
centuries; it is at once the longest lived and the strongest. The choice of composers
reflects their significance in the renaissance of British music for, to paraphrase
Frank Howes, Parry and Stanford are recognized as having begun its rehabilitation;
Vaughan Williams, as having assisted in its emancipation from continental models;
and Finzi, Rubbra, and Dyson, as having flourished in its independence. The choice
of choral works is based on their historical importance; their significance in the
oeuvre of a particular composer; their pertinence after a thorough examination vis-
à-vis the autograph manuscripts, which form a record of the compositional process
at various levels; and an attempt to remedy the relatively scant discussion of them
in other studies. Specifically, each chapter provides historical information on the
choral-orchestral work and/or the composer under consideration, together with
critical responses to the composition or a survey of the secondary literature, an
assessment and delineation of the manuscripts and source materials, an explication
of the formal and/or harmonic structure of the work, and a concise conclusion.
Questions concerning the interpretation of the autograph material and how
knowledge gained from their examination enhances our understanding of the
composer’s music are an important aspect of the book, for our conception of music
history includes the artifacts created by the composers, the significance of which
extends beyond their status as works of art, genius and learning. The manner in
which the musical ideas of a composer are consigned to paper is telling because
it illuminates the composer’s priorities, underlying assumptions, and unconscious
givens, which may not be visible in the published score. Thus, included in the
chapters are discussions of the autographs (from sketches, drafts, and short scores
to full scores and fair copies) and their formats (from small oblong books to large
orchestral documents); writing utensils (pencils, and ballpoint and fountain pens);
pencil and ink entries (from the cacography of Vaughan Williams to the calligraphy
of Rubbra); deletions, erasures, layers of notation, and pastings (from the meager
to the profuse); philological problems (whether the material is complete or if
pages/folios are lost, and when the annotations and revisions were executed); and
hermeneutic conclusions (how the material reveals the creative procedures of the
composers or supports the analysis of their music).
Chapters 1 and 2 discuss The Vision of Life (1907/rev. 1914), Voces
Clamantium (1903), and Beyond These Voices There Is Peace (1908) by Parry.
In the former chapter, the composer’s image and legacy, his struggle to create
a new choral form, and the revision seven years later of the final chorus of his
xviii An Imperishable Heritage: British Choral Music from Parry to Dyson
ethical apologia are considered, while in the latter aspects of Parry’s character, as
exemplified in the two works, his choice of texts, and his compositional technique,
are elucidated. Chapters 3 and 4 scrutinize The Three Holy Children (1885) and
Elegiac Ode (1884) by Stanford. In the former, two versions (1885 and 1902)
of the oratorio are compared, whereas in the latter Stanford’s choice of text,
its setting as a memorial to his father, and its influence on Vaughan Williams’s
Whitman symphony are postulated. Chapters 5 and 6 examine Flos Campi (1925)
and An Oxford Elegy (1949) by Vaughan Williams. In the former, the rediscovery
of the missing autograph provided the opportunity to review the work’s reception
history, performance forces, compositional structure, and so on, while in the latter
I demonstrate how the work is based on his early Harnham Down (1907), then
focus on the composer’s selection of two Matthew Arnold poems and on his
method of pruning and shifting lines to create a unified setting. Chapters 7 and
8 are concerned with two works by Finzi, the early but posthumously published
Requiem da Camera (1923–25) and his magnum opus Intimations of Immortality
(1936?–38/1949–50). In the former, the influence of an early Vaughan Williams
motet is argued, while in the latter the similarities to An Oxford Elegy and the
possible subsuming of motifs from Harnham Down are contemplated. Chapters 9
and 10 discuss Rubbra’s Sinfonia Sacra (1972) and The Morning Watch (1941).
In the former, the status of the work as oratorio versus symphony, its antecedents,
and compositional design are weighed, whereas in the latter it is the work as an
abandoned symphony and the setting of Henry Vaughan’s poem that are debated;
the exegeses of similar works by Arnold Bax and Gustav Holst are briefly
presented as well. Finally, Chapters 11 and 12 deal with Quo Vadis (1937–48) and
Nebuchadnezzar (1935) by Dyson. In the former, the focus is on the composer’s
anthology design, what poetic extracts he utilized—for instance he included
lines set by Finzi in Intimations of Immortality and Howells in Hymnus Paradisi
(1950)—and the influence of Walford Davies, while in the latter the investigation
centers on the stimulus of Parry (Job), Stanford (The Three Holy Children), and
Walton (Belshazzar’s Feast).
The sequence is chronological by composer but readers might approach the
chapters from the standpoint of parallels and correspondences or of development
and influence (though other pairings or groupings are entirely possible). For
example, the ethical idealism and inspiring choral writing of The Vision of Life
by Parry (Chapter 1) is echoed in Quo Vadis by Dyson (Chapter 11). The hybrid
design and moral orientation of Beyond These Voices There Is Peace by Parry
(Chapter 2) influenced Sinfonia Sacra by Rubbra (Chapter 9), notwithstanding
the status of the second as a symphony, for the generic antecedents of both works
are the cantata and oratorio. The biblical story of Stanford’s The Three Holy
Children (Chapter 3) is appropriated in Nebuchadnezzar by Dyson (Chapter 12).
The four-movement pattern (perhaps with symphony connotations) of Elegiac
Ode by Stanford (Chapter 4) is used in Requiem da Camera by Finzi (Chapter 7).
Finally, the pivoted tonal structure, melodic inflection of its concluding section,
and ravishing musical idiom of An Oxford Elegy by Vaughan Williams (Chapter
Preface xix
6) are found in Intimations of Immortality by Finzi (Chapter 8), indicating a true

cross-fertilization between the two composers. To me, all of these works represent
examples of an imperishable heritage of England, a phrase borrowed from Frank
Howes and used in my title; for as long as musicians and scholars care to examine
them, they will continue to live in some fashion.
My introduction to the music of Parry, Stanford, and Vaughan Williams
occurred during boyhood, for I was singing their hymn tunes—Repton (“Dear
Lord and Father of Mankind”), Engelberg (“When in Our Music God Is Glorified”)
and Down Ampney (“Come Down, O Love Divine”)—before I was cognizant of
who composed them. Dyson, Finzi, Rubbra, and other English composers were
encountered much later. As an undergraduate and graduate student, I became
enthralled with Vaughan Williams, studying his works and performing them,
too—Parry and Stanford were disregarded—but my university-cum-conservatory
education—absorbing, fulfilling, yet reflecting the established norm—centered
decidedly on the research methodology and repertoire of the Austro-German
school. It culminated in the inspection of artifacts at the Ernst Krenek Archive
(University of California-San Diego), visits to the home of the émigré composer
(Palm Springs, California), and the required treatise.
Then in 1991 my interest in Vaughan Williams was kindled, unexpectedly,
through the agency of a post-doctoral seminar at Harvard University, “The
Symphony after Beethoven,” directed by the erudite Reinhold Brinkmann, offered
under the auspices of the National Endowment for the Humanities. In the heady
atmosphere of Cambridge, we investigated how nineteenth-century composers
responded to Beethoven’s paradigm, the Choral Symphony, by adding voices to
their monumental forms in very different ways. Scholars often cited Mendelssohn’s
Lobgesang, a symphony with extended cantata; Liszt’s Faust and Dante symphonic
essays, the former with its reflective final “Chorus mysticus,” sung by solo tenor
and male chorus, the latter with its female chorus; and Mahler’s Second, Third,
Fourth, and Eighth, which represent instances of the cantata-symphony, while the
Second and Eighth also are reminiscent of the oratorio. Yet there were many other
examples, all of which led me to A Sea Symphony by Vaughan Williams.
In 1993 I became the fortunate recipient of the eighth Ralph Vaughan Williams
Fellowship, awarded to a North American scholar by the Carthusian Trust of
Godalming, Surrey, to study the music and manuscripts of the great composer,
specifically his choral symphony. While residing at Charterhouse, the school RVW
attended as a boy, I traveled daily to the British Museum to conduct in situ my
archival work, which, several years removed, resulted in a monograph, “‘Full of
fresh thoughts’: Vaughan Williams, Whitman and the Genesis of A Sea Symphony,”
published finally in an abbreviated version, when the essays of other RVW Fellows
had been gathered together, in Vaughan Williams Essays (Ashgate, 2003). That
experience represented the first of many immersions into the magisterial collection
of Vaughan Williams’s autographs and, in ensuing summers, with the idea of a
book in mind, I would examine the manuscripts of all of his choral settings, some
of the symphonies, and many other works as well.
xx An Imperishable Heritage: British Choral Music from Parry to Dyson
London became a place of sojourn during the 1996 spring term, when I had
the chance to teach in a study-abroad program based at Imperial College. My flat
(at 22 Hornton Street) was, literally, down the road and around the corner from
Stanford’s residence (50 Holland Street) and not too far from Parry’s home (17
Kensington Square), which I passed daily on my way to Kensington Gore. A teaching
engagement in England with the prospect of a reduced pedagogical load and the time
for writing were the enticement. However, the reality of penning a paragraph here
and a page there, in stolen moments before classes, at the end of long days, in the
dewy, cobwebby hours of the mornings, and on weekends when my energies were
devoted to other things, proved impossible. Still, research was conducted, pleasantly
and productively, at the Royal College of Music Library and elsewhere, and, on one
memorable occasion, I enjoyed the rare opportunity of dining with Ursula Vaughan
Williams, who cooked for me at her home, a ritual she afforded every RVW Fellow
and which for some reason had not been possible earlier.
After returning to the United States, my listening, reading, and studying
broadened and deepened to include the predecessors and successors of RVW and,
thus, the book I hoped to write was modified to include works by other composers
and delimited by my own preferences. Now, after many years, Parry and Stanford
re-emerged and would be joined by Dyson, Finzi, and Rubbra. The music would
be discussed microscopically or telescopically, as determined by the materials
and sources, and instances of similarities and imitations and of continuities and
connections among the composers, their works, and their creative processes would
be explored as needed and if possible. An early model, though ultimately discarded,
was Beethoven and the Creative Process by Barry Cooper (Clarendon Press, 1990).
Before long, I was returning every year (almost) to London and Oxford, where,
in the felicitous solitude of the requisite library, I pursued my work, happily
surrounded by artifacts, books, manuscripts, and other accoutrements of the
scholar, only to cease momentarily when I surfaced to appreciate the lovely view
across the Manuscript Reading Room, created by the clerestory and lantern lights
housed in the pitched roofs, of the (new) British Library; the muffled singing or
playing, competent and enjoyable, of a conservatory student, resonating softly in
the venerable Royal College of Music Library; or the rain against the windows, by
turns gentle and hard, in the Oxford University Bodleian Library.
As my earlier studies had shown, the music I examined followed the continental
fashion for expanding the generic categories, or blurring their distinctions, that
had begun “after Beethoven” in the later nineteenth century and continued well
into the twentieth. Thus the works included for discussion in my book of essays
may be seen as hybrid forms (for example, as cantata-symphonies, cantata-
oratorios, or oratorio-passions) and their subtitles (if included by the composer)
may be an important part of his artistic statement. One need only reference Flos
Campi by Vaughan Williams—a suite for solo viola, small wordless mixed chorus,
and small orchestra, each movement headed by a Latin quotation from The Song
of Solomon—as an illustration. The mention of oratorio implies that a work
possesses a moral posture, for the oratorio’s purpose always has been edification
Preface xxi
through music, and it will be apparent that some of the works incorporate texts
that are ethically inclined, though not necessarily sacred in orientation, or that
are biblical; the others treat a variety of subjects (for example, metaphysical or
visionary, topical or classical). Some adopt a method of the anthology on a single
subject, a design initiated by Parry; and Parry’s influence is pervasive, not least in
the musical idiom embodied in the works, for they are basically diatonic and tonal,
but also in the sense that they continued Parry’s practice of exalting choral writing
and also his investigation of humanist philosophy or metaphysical concerns as a
sphere of musical utterance.
As the century turned and my book took shape over the years, it became
necessary to substitute a few works for my original choices, because of the
questions I asked about the composers and their creations—for example, how they
composed in general and how they composed certain works in particular, and what
the autographs revealed about the process—but the final result was to me no less
interesting. In content and form it is as described above.
Stephen Town
Maryville, Missouri 2012
Acknowledgments
Anyone investigating the music of Parry, Stanford, Vaughan Williams et alia is

indebted to certain scholars whose books have become standard references, and it
will be apparent to whom I owe so much. When these authors—Stephen Banfield,
Jeremy Dibble, Lewis Foreman, Diana McVeagh, to name a few—make important
points more effectively and succinctly than I can, I do not hesitate to incorporate
their words and, of course, I give explicit recognition in all such cases. If I have
omitted any citations, it is due to inadvertence and poor memory, and not from any
desire to appropriate their words as my own.
I must express my gratitude to Christopher Bornet, Celia Clarke, and Peter
Horton (especially the last named) of the Royal College of Music Library for
their assistance with the RCM’s extensive holdings of Parry and Stanford; to
Chris Banks, Nicolas Bell, and Hugh Cobbe of the British Library, each of whom
expedited my access to the autographs of Vaughan Williams and other composers;
and Peter Ward Jones of the Bodleian Library, Oxford University, who helped me
with the Finzi and Parry holdings. Glenn Morrow, of my own institution, Northwest
Missouri State University, answered my every request for materials with alacrity
and courtesy, and my colleagues and employers were invariably supportive of
my task: Richard Bobo, my longtime collaborative pianist and friend, shared my
enthusiasm for the music of the period through abundant rehearsals and recitals;
successive Faculty Research Committees and Dr. Charles McAdams, Dean of the
College of Arts and Sciences, funded generously my trips to the various archives in
the United Kingdom and, thereafter, the acquisition of photographic reproductions;
and Dr. Dean Hubbard (Emeritus President) and the Board of Regents approved
a 2001 spring term sabbatical, which allowed me to ponder the music and to
develop a strategy for conducting my writing. Kathleen Sewright read much of the
manuscript, providing astute and helpful written marginalia and verbal comments,
some of which were incorporated into the text. Naturally, I alone am responsible
for any errors of conception and fact, or inaccuracies and inconsistencies, which
remain after careful consideration and multiple readings.
I gladly acknowledge the selection committees of various professional
organizations for allowing me to present abridged versions of several chapters
at their conferences, which I list in reverse order: Chapter 5 at the 2007 National
Convention of The College Music Society (Salt Lake City, Utah, 18 November
2007); Chapter 1 at the 2005 Fifth Biennial International Conference on Music
in Nineteenth-Century Britain (University of Nottingham, Nottingham, England,
9 July 2005); and Chapter 6 at the 2000 Ralph Vaughan Williams International
Symposium (Charterhouse, Godalming, England, 27 July 2000).
xxiv An Imperishable Heritage: British Choral Music from Parry to Dyson
I wish to thank the following libraries, publishers, and entities which granted
permission to publish photographic duplications of specific holographs—The
British Library, the Royal College of Music Library and the Vaughan Williams
Charitable Trust—and music excerpts—Alfred Lengnick & Co. Ltd./G Ricordi &
Co. (London) Ltd., Banks Music Publications, Boosey & Co., Ltd., G. Schirmer
Limited, Novello & Company Limited, and Oxford University Press.
My undying appreciation is extended to Rachel Lynch, one-time
Commissioning Editor of Ashgate Publishing Company, who contracted my
book after attending the lecture I delivered at Charterhouse; to Heidi Bishop, her
successor, who amiably checked at intervals on the progress of my manuscript; to
Laura Macy, who was extremely helpful during its final period of preparation; and
to the staff who brought it to print.
Of course, it was the RWV Fellowship, for which I remain immensely grateful,
that served as the strong impetus for my work. Beyond the lavish treatment I
received from the administration, faculty, and staff, I shall never forget the singing
of the boys and day-girls during worship services, and in general the ambience,
of Charterhouse. One indelible memory stands out from that long-ago period:
after a resplendent late-night formal dinner in Brooke Hall with Patrick Hawes,
David Wright, and their spouses, we retreated to the Chapel, dark and silent,
where Patrick played Rosymedre by Vaughan Williams. Over the years, I returned
many times to Charterhouse to see Robin Wells, now Emeritus Director of Music,
who extended to me many kindnesses: the comfort of his home, drink, food, and
friendship. It was he who arranged my recital appearances on the Charterhouse
Celebrity Concert Series and on the lunchtime series at St Martin-in-the-Fields
Church, Trafalgar Square, and with whom I made the pilgrimage (during one trip)
to Leith Hill Place, Down Ampney (church and vicarage), and other RVW sites,
and (on another) to Parry’s Knight’s Croft, Rustington, and Shulbrede Priory, an
ancient ecclesiastical building of the twelfth century near Haslemere, the latter
of which included an unplanned stop. Hence I offer a belated thank you to Ian
Russell, who permitted us to see its architectural glories, the faded fourteenth-
century frescoes, and Parry’s study.
My work would have been much more difficult were it not for the support of my
wife, Denise, with whom I continued to travel throughout England, visiting many
of the places associated with the musicians and poets about whom I was studying
and writing—places of their birth, locales that inspired their cantatas, hymns, or
poems, and gravesides or public memorials dedicated to them: Parry’s ancestral
home at Highnam, also there the Holy Innocents’ Church, built by Parry’s father
in remembrance of his first wife and children (when we stopped unannounced,
Tom Fenton, the great-grandson of Gambier Parry, allowed us to inspect the
church alone); Stanford’s Trinity College, Cambridge; Finzi’s Harrogate, King’s
Mill House in Painswick, and Church Farm, Ashmansworth; Dyson’s Winchester;
Arnold’s Rugby; Wordsworth’s Lake District; Cheltenham, the Rissingtons,
Twigworth, indeed all of the Cotswolds; and Hereford, Gloucester, and Worcester
(Lower Broadheath); Ely and Leeds; and so many other places as well. Two
Acknowledgments xxv
photographs from our journeys remain treasures: in one, Denise stands before the
church at Bibury, happily stroking a beautiful tortoiseshell cat; in the second, we
stand together, our faces ruddy from the cold wind, in front of Stonehenge on
the Wiltshire plains—the scene is immemorial and I am thinking that, though we
shall pass someday, perhaps our ghosts will be seen sometime and somewhere on
the downs or plains of England. And so, I thank my wife, Denise, for her infinite
patience, and dedicate this book to her with love and affection.
Chapter 1
Hubert Parry and The Vision of Life
Reconsidered: “And we are faint with
longing to hear the message clearly”
He was a big man; he has left a few things that belong to the imperishable heritage of
English vocal music; he was the best scholar that England has ever produced to use
a pen equally for writing music and for writing about music. Composer, executant,
scholar, administrator, he transformed all the values current in the musical life of
Victorian England. (Frank Howes)1
Images of Parry
Interest in nineteenth- and twentieth-century British music has undergone

something of a recrudescence since the mid-1980s, and as a result significant
studies of various kinds have been published. For example, in this time there
have appeared: biographies on Finzi, Rubbra, and Stanford;2 analytical essays on
Vaughan Williams and his oeuvre;3 genre-specific studies on the works of Elgar and
Vaughan Williams;4 and disquisitions on the fin-de-siècle renaissance of English
music.5 Hubert Parry (1848–1918) has not been neglected, as is evident from the
works by Jeremy Dibble, Bernard Benoliel, Anthony Boden, and Michael Allis.6
Jeremy Dibble’s exhaustive biography was the first reappraisal of Parry since
the two-volume treatment by Charles Graves. In it, Dibble examined Parry’s life
and works “across a broad spectrum of musicological, historical, sociological, and
psychological planes.”7 As a result, the pioneering study he produced gave “as
full a picture of [Parry’s] spiritual growth, the influence of personal relationships,
the music he heard, the men he met and from whom he learnt, what he read,
and what he shunned through the use of diaries and letters, and in turn [Dibble]
used this documentation to give perspective to an examination of his large
creative output.”8 Unlike Graves, Dibble was not placed under any restrictions
by the descendants of Parry’s family. Thus, he was “free to illuminate the nature
of Parry’s relationship with his wife,” whom he described as suffering from
hypochondria and valetudinarianism and as dispassionate about her husband’s
music, and with his many friends and associates, as well as other controversial
issues, such as Parry’s revulsion from organized religion. It is an exemplary work
by a consummate scholar-author.
2 An Imperishable Heritage: British Choral Music from Parry to Dyson
Bernard Benoliel’s examination of Parry and his music presented, in his words,
“a critique of Parry fundamentally at odds” with Dibble and Graves.9 Though he,
too, had access to “the collection of family papers, letters and diaries deposited at
Shulbrede Priory, the home of Parry’s elder daughter Dorothea, Lady Ponsonby and
her descendants,” his book of composite studies offered “alternative perspectives on
Parry’s music, Parry the man and Lady Maude.”10 For example, Benoliel wrote that
Parry’s wife was quite interested in her husband’s music, and “evolved a positive
policy towards Parry’s emerging roles as composer, musicologist and academic.”11
He theorized that “the lack of a mother caused a rift between the masculine
and feminine aspects of Parry’s personality”12 which “often short circuited” his
creativity;13 and that the “prominent role” given to the soprano in his large choral
settings was, “for Parry, invariably the voice of the ‘fem inspiratus’.”14 Most
controversial was his brief discussion of Parry’s setting of the soliloquy “I believe
it” from Browning’s Saul. “Perhaps Parry had a spiritual experience,” Benoliel
conjectured, despite the evidence to the contrary in the biography by Graves,
which he related to the “feminine attribute” of surrendering, “a key word in almost
all spiritual experiences that result in a conversion or a reaffirmation of religious
belief.”15 He concluded: “To choose these lines from the vast range of Browning’s
verse suggests a distinct shift of attitude which would be confirmed by the subject
matter chosen for succeeding compositions.” Ultimately, Benoliel confessed that
to him “Parry was one of the finest men of his time and the seminal creator of the
English Musical Renaissance.”16 His book is well written and provocative.
Anthony Boden’s offering, as the title indicates, was not about Parry alone but
also about the family that produced the great composer.17 To complete it, Boden
consulted a number of rich sources: the letters, diaries, and memoranda of Thomas
Parry (1732–1816), the composer’s great-grandfather and creator of the family
fortune; Thomas Gambier Parry (1816–88), the composer’s father; Clinton Parry
(1840–83), the composer’s brother; and Ernest Gambier-Parry (1853–1936), the
composer’s half-brother, to name a few, deposited in the archives of the British
Library (India Office Records); in Highnam (the Parry home), located near
Gloucester; and in Shulbrede Priory. Some of the diverse secondary sources cited
are: Thomas Fenton’s A History and Guide to the Church of the Holy Innocents,
Highnam, Gloucestershire; Ernest Gambier-Parry’s Annals of an Eton House,
published in 1907; Boden’s own Three Choirs: A History of the Festival, about
the annual meetings of the choirs of Gloucester, Hereford, and Worcester; and
the biographies by Dibble and Graves. The chief value of Boden’s volume is the
juxtaposition of Parry vis-à-vis his family, all of whom were carefully portrayed.
Parry’s long letter to his father, which explained precisely his spiritual position,
and Arthur Ponsonby’s perceptive summary of Parry’s essential qualities were
published in toto for the first time.18 However, the author’s brief comments on
several of the musical works were merely adequate (understandable because this
was not a book that centered on analyses of music). Yet, all in all, the topics in
Boden’s attractive volume—biographical, genealogical, and musical—were
cleverly woven into a narrative that is highly engaging.
Hubert Parry and The Vision of Life Reconsidered 3
The first book-length work dealing specifically with the compositional

procedures of the composer was Parry’s Creative Process by Michael Allis.
His examination of the composer’s manuscript material resolved, in his words,
“problems of chronology”; “a number of projected works are identified which have
not been discussed in any detail elsewhere, and several compositions by Parry are
traced from initial sketch or draft through to the completed work.”19 This process
is intriguing in itself, but Allis’s investigation had greater significance because it
corrected some misperceptions about Parry, which the author outlined in Chapter
1. According to Allis, there were two accusations made against the composer which
are still repeated, and which weaken Parry’s reception as a composer and lessen
the value of his creations: first, the insinuation that the act of composition was easy
for Parry; and, second, that he was an upper-class amateur who “approached his
craft with a lack of criticism.”20 In Allis’s opinion, the only way to meet and re-
evaluate these two accusations is to scrutinize each compositional stage, which he
did methodically. Through his examination of the extant manuscript material, as
well as Parry’s own writings in letters, diaries, and published works, “the picture
that emerges is that of a composer who often found composition difficult, and
who approached all the stages of his craft with criticism and professionalism.”21
With the exception of some elements of Parry’s reception history, Allis’s book did
not consider the fascinating biography of Parry—that was not the author’s intent.
More to the point, Allis described precisely the composer’s manuscript material
and compositional stages in an admirable and authoritative fashion.
A different view of Parry was provided by Meirion Hughes in The English
Musical Renaissance and the Press 1850–1914.22 In Chapter 6, “Parry: ‘English
Master’,” Hughes presented Parry as the composer who, during the course of
the 1880s, became the leader—the “composer-commander” to use his label—
of England’s Musical Renaissance, and who, by the end of the decade, was
considered as the greatest native composer since Purcell.23 How this occurred,
when the critics themselves disagreed about the future course of national music,
and when Parry himself never curried their favor or solicited their support,
makes absorbing reading. According to Hughes, it was Joseph Bennett’s review
(Daily Telegraph, 4 September 1882) of Parry’s Symphony No. 1 which first
used the term “renaissance” in connection with the national music crusade.24 The
Musical Times (1 July 1887) was the first to reference Parry’s “mastery” when
reviewing the revised Symphony No. 2.25 But it was Parry’s colleague, Stanford,
who elevated Parry to the status of national composer. In his article on Judith
(Fortnightly Review, 1888), Stanford invented “the notion of Parry’s essential
‘Englishness’”26 and of the oratorio’s “distinctly English, national atmosphere,”
ideas that were appropriated by the critics.27 Thereafter, Parry was forever labeled
the “English master,” even after the turn of the century when his music seemed
passé to a younger generation of critics and listeners. Hence, the “watchmen of
music” played “a determining role in the construction of Parry’s reputation”;28
they “sought to mould and direct the composer and, to an astonishing degree,
they succeeded.”29 Hughes went on to close his chapter, part of an entertaining,

humorous, and delightfully irreverent book, in the following manner:
Appropriately for a national captain, [Parry] was buried in St. Paul’s Cathedral,
that garrison church of England and of the British Empire. Sir Hubert’s final
resting-place was not to be Westminster Abbey, the necropolis of artists and
musicians. Not for him the company in death of Purcell and Handel and (in due
course) Stanford and Vaughan Williams. In St. Paul’s he was put to rest … close
to Admiral Lord Nelson, the Sea-Lord Rodney and the Duke of Wellington:
captains all in England’s cause.30
The fascinating and varied images of Parry presented in the foregoing

volumes were predicated upon those of Charles Graves, who authored the first
biography of the composer in the 1920s, a two-volume investigation published
by Macmillan in 1926. The work was very much of its day in that the author,
who devoted ten chapters to Parry’s life and only one to his music, considered
the composer’s biographical details independently from his oeuvre “without much
cross-reference.” Although “the material placed at [his] disposal,” as Graves
wrote, “[was] rich in contemporary evidence of the state of social England in the
middle and later Victorian age,” and Parry’s diaries, “begun at Eton and kept up
till the end of his life,” formed “the backbone of [the] memoir,”31 controversial
topics were not included because those “closely related or associated with Parry
were still alive so soon after the composer’s death” in 1918.32 For example, private
information about Lady Maude Parry, Parry’s relationships with his family and
colleagues, and his propensity for melancholy and religious unorthodoxy were
diluted or suppressed. Yet the work established many of the conceptions of the
composer that became reinforced by tradition, for example Parry as one of the
pivotal figures in the British music revival; an erudite author and pedagogue; a
brilliant administrator; an idiomatically conservative composer; an assiduous
and indefatigable worker; an intellectual and radical; the good and great man.33 It
remains captivating and refreshing after repeated readings.
There have been a few others who have added to our picture of the composer.
Frank Howes discussed Parry in The English Musical Renaissance, perhaps the
terminus a quo of the studies by Stradling and Hughes, released by Secker and
Warburg in 1966. There, in Chapter 7, “Parry the Instigator,” he massaged the
ever-familiar themes of Parry’s curriculum vitae. “To Hubert Parry must go the
chief credit for the awakening of English music from the complacent lethargy that
had been growing on it for the best part of two centuries,” wrote Howes. “He more
than anyone … pulled it out of the rut of sentimentality, easy-going standards, and
disregard of literary values in vocal music; he raised the intellectual status of the
musical profession and with that its place in public regard; he infused new life
into musical education, set up higher standards and established worthier ideals; he
gave to the art as practised in Britain an integrity, moral, social and aesthetic, that
it had not possessed since the time of Byrd and Gibbons.”34
Something of an evangelist in his prose, Howes was convinced that Parry had
“exercised an enormous influence both on his own generation and on every serious
musician who [had] practised his art in this country ever since.”35 And inasmuch as
he believed that “no estimate of [Parry could] be complete without close scrutiny
of his whole make-up,” he briefly reviewed Parry’s place of birth and ancestors;
his public school and university education (at Eton 1861–66 and Oxford 1867–70);
his music teachers George Elvey and Samuel Sebastian Wesley, and study abroad
(1867) with the English expatriate Henry Hugo Pierson; his London mentors
Edward Dannreuther and George Grove; his work as an author and as a professor
at the Royal College of Music (RCM; from 1883), Oxford (1900–1908) and
elsewhere (for example, Cambridge); his administrative appointment at the RCM
(1895 as Director); and his “incessant composition.” Balancing his discourse with
pro and contra arguments, Howes surmised that Parry’s “success and failure as a
musician [were] directly explicable by other than music factors in his life—his
heredity, his education, his zestful nature, his diversity of gifts, the width of his
interests, the quantity of work he accomplished and above all the strain of Puritan
earnestness which developed greater strength the older he grew. By the paradox of
Puritanism, a kind of inversion of the hedonistic paradox, Parry’s earnestness and
zeal are responsible for careless work and a lack of self-criticism which was hardly
noticed at the time.”36 Encountered in almost every subsequent treatment of Parry,
Howes played an integral part in the reception of Parry’s career and personality.
We should mention one last perspective on Parry, which may be found in
Stephen Banfield’s two-volume treatise, Sensibility and English Song. There, in
a chapter devoted to “Reticent Victorians,” the two elements of Parry’s character
were given extended attention by the author, because they are very much
reflected in his music.37 “His life … was made up of two contrasting impulses,
one a haven from the other, neither capable of fulfilment on its own, and never
finally integrated,” the author wrote. “His music can be hearty and blustering,
thick and heavy, failing to get off the ground; at other times it is intensely lyrical,
almost too sensitive and, in proximity to his robust mood, producing an effect of
weak sentimentality. These two disunified aspects appear in almost all his works,
especially the large-scale ones, where the conflicts are most exposed.”38
This analysis was preceded by a somber portrait of Parry’s biography. “He was
born at Bournemouth, but grew up … at Highnam, just outside Gloucester. Highnam
is a bleak, forbidding estate, thickly surrounded with dark conifers, its stark, neo-
Gothic parish church in the grounds isolated from any village and approached only
by a dank, sunken path. It hardly seems to belong to Gloucestershire, a county of
colourful orchards, stone cottages and precipitous hills with breathtaking views, and
indeed Parry remained largely aloof from these rustic and open rural surroundings;
not until he was nearly 20 did he visit Upton St Leonards, only five miles away,
to obtain one of the famous views from the Cotswold escarpment.” In Banfield’s
opinion, “Parry seems to have spent more time steeped in the austere, sunless
atmosphere of the Gothic revival, sitting as a model for one of the heads of the
Genealogy while his father, Thomas Gambier Parry, a well-known ecclesiastical
decorator, painted the frescoes on the roof of the nave of Ely Cathedral.” As a
result, “a reserve of loneliness was built up, and from 1864 he kept a diary to which
he confided many thoughts, particularly about religion.”39
Be that as it may, there is evidence that, to the end of Parry’s life, his
ancestral home, Highnam Court, and its surroundings, “held a peculiar and even
a sacred place in his affections.”40 This must have been due in part to the church
founded in 1849 by his father (an enthusiast of the Anglo-Catholic revival and
of its architectural concomitant, the Gothic Revival) in memory of his first wife,
Isabella, née Fynes Clinton (1816–48), and their three children who died in infancy
(hence its dedication to “The Holy Innocents”). Lavishly decorated by Gambier
Parry from 1850 to 1871 with a spirit fresco technique of his own creation, this
masterpiece was completed in 1851, the west tower and spire soaring 200 feet
over the neighborhood. Due to the efforts of Thomas Fenton, a distant relative,
the building was restored in the 1990s, saving the frescoes, which were blackened
by soot and severely damaged by water. Thus the structure, described by John
Betjeman “as the most complete Victorian church in the country,” may once again
be fully appreciated.41 Having written that, it is true that Parry was happier at
Knight’s Croft, Rustington, where he could indulge in swimming and yachting,
and at Shulbrede Priory, the home of his daughter.
To return to Banfield’s evaluation: “When [Parry] went to Eton his circumscribed
environment was violently counteracted. A hearty side to his character developed,
perhaps a defence necessary in a school at that time completely unmusical, but
never to be shaken off. He played sport with alarming violence, frequently suffering
considerable injuries on the football field,” while “later in life he tackled driving
in an equivalent fashion, suffering a fair number of road accidents and speeding
fines.” Furthermore, “at Exeter College, Oxford, he fooled around in innumerable
immature undergraduate pranks, drank and danced a lot, studied little, and went
to the theatre not at all. Music was neglected.” The author went on: “After his
marriage (which, probably because of his solitary disposition, was not particularly
happy) his sporting energy was channelled into sailing, which he undertook with
his customary reckless vigour, and into the devastating but friendly slap on the back
which the more delicate of his pupils came to dread in the corridors of the RCM.
Few realised that behind the slap lay a hypersensitive nature and, in his son-in-law’s
words, ‘a definite shyness which made words difficult at moments of deep feeling,
when a pound on the back had to take the place of praise; a form of inhibition
which made clubs of no account to him and kept him a lonely man all his life’.”
Finally, Banfield concluded: “His health was greatly troublesome during his final
years, partly because of continual overwork, though he tried to shrug off even his
frequent and very painful heart attacks with his usual bluster. His introspective side
ultimately found sublimated expression in his metaphysical texts for choral works
(of which the best and most extended is A Vision of Life, similar to Whitman in its
humanistic aspirations but full of inhibitions), in the large prose work of his final
years, Instinct and Character, which expounded his radical liberalism and which to
his great disappointment he could not publish, and in his songs.”42
Parry’s uneasy relationships with his family and the press; his over-extended
energies in various activities; his perceived facility at composition and status as
an aristocratic amateur; his disharmonized character traits—these are a few of the
factors, intimated in the preceding paragraphs, that acted as a stimulus for or as an
impediment to composition or that brought about changes in his musical style. Others
emerge as his choral works, and specifically The Vision of Life, are investigated.
Ethical Cantatas and The Vision of Life
By 1902 Parry felt he had exhausted the manifold traditional forms for chorus and
orchestra he had been working with for over twenty years. … He wanted to move
on and create something new in this most difficult of genres. … Parry had prepared
the groundwork for three generations of English composers on how to write for
chorus and orchestra, and his seminal creations had given back to England her
musical voice. (Bernard Benoliel)43
It is a well-known fact that, in order to become successful in the Victorian period,

a British composer had to write choral works.44 Thus, even though Parry aspired to
write great instrumental music at the beginning of his career, it was his success as
a composer of the ode Blest Pair of Sirens on Milton’s verse (1887), as well as the
three oratorios Judith (1888), Job (1892), and King Saul (1894), on libretti of his
own design, that established his national reputation and caused him to focus almost
entirely on reflective choral music. How this occurred is rather complicated.
According to Hughes, “only a major work for the choral festival circuit could
really radically transform Parry’s reputation with both the musical public and
critics. The composer eventually grasped this fact.”45 However, after Blest Pair of
Sirens, as Graves recorded, “popular recognition took the form of a demand for a
kind of work specially in request amongst the largest audiences. It was not enough
that [Parry] should go on writing choral works, but that he should write that
particular kind of choral work in vogue at the great provincial festivals.”46 Benoliel
phrased it somewhat differently: “conformity carried a degree of artistic hypocrisy
since it precluded creative freedom. The successful composer was expected to
subscribe to the Victorian values of respectability and religious convention as
prescribed by the Deans and Chapters of Hereford, Worcester and Gloucester.
The composer’s artistic vision was not considered.”47 That was Parry’s dilemma:
“should he accede to contemporary taste and convention, stoically accepting the
penalty of his environment,” Dibble asked, “or should he follow the road towards
iconoclasm and artistic integrity, and risk a decline in public attention?”48
In Dibble’s opinion, Parry compromised “in the knowledge that there were
also openings for experiment,”49 whereas Benoliel thought he did so “because he
wanted to be acknowledged as a great composer.”50 Of course, Parry’s decision led
to the destructive criticisms of George Bernard Shaw and others of his ilk. Dibble
recorded Parry’s ambivalence toward his task, cited his “dislike of the traditional
oratorio genre,”51 and wrote that Parry knew “his excursion into ‘dramatic’
oratorio had been a mistake, for he had realized that no amount of theological
unconventionality or philosophical allegory could of themselves bring about a
transformation of the genre. Furthermore, he must also have been conscious of his
shortcomings in the sphere of dramatic music and of his failure to make the epic
gestures commensurate with … the violence of Judith …, the sheer scale of Job
… or the psychological tragedy of King Saul.”52
There was a greater problem, however. Parry was an agnostic, though his
position has been defined as “reverent” (Graves) or as “reluctant” (Dibble); yet, “in
spite of his rejection of religious orthodoxy, he recognized that ordered civilization
was entirely dependent upon an ethical framework, [and] he recognized the vital
necessity for a spiritual dimension in the life of man.”53 Parry himself wrote:
I believe in religion, but one so pure and simple that its chiefest maxim is “strive
after virtue for itself”. I believe that the theological part of Christianity and all
dogmas connected with it are a mistake … I believe in God, and I believe that he
is good, and I think that is the one form of “faith” that will always stick to me.
Beyond that I believe we can know nothing of him.54
Hence he searched for a successor to the moribund oratorio through which to

express his philosophical and artistic ideals, and this search led to the composition
of six works that have been termed “ethical cantatas.”
The series occupied him from 1902 until 1908, the set of six being War and
Peace (Symphonic Ode [3 April 1903, Royal Choral Society, Albert Hall]), Voces
Clamantium (Motet [10 September 1903, Hereford Festival]), The Love That
Casteth Out Fear (Sinfonia Sacra [7 September 1904, Gloucester Festival]), The
Soul’s Ransom (Sinfonia Sacra [12 September 1906, Hereford Festival]), The Vision
of Life (A Symphonic Poem [26 September 1907, Cardiff Festival]), and Beyond
These Voices There Is Peace (Motet [9 September 1908, Worcester Festival]).
All six are scored for soprano, baritone, chorus and orchestra, with the exception
of The Love That Casteth Out Fear, where Parry substitutes a contralto for the
soprano. In duration, all but one last between 45 and 75 minutes approximately;
Voces Clamantium is under 30 minutes. Parry penned the free-verse text for War
and Peace and for The Vision of Life; for the others, he grouped texts from the
Bible with some original lines of his own to devise the narratives.
The Vision of Life (1907/revised 1914), the fifth work in this series, was intended
as Parry’s metaphysical testament. In it, he expounded an ethical idealism that can
be seen as a logical humanist development of his early credo. The text probes, in
the words of Dibble:
a vision of evolving humanity through the ages, fired by optimism, aspiration,

spiritual fellowship, and the thirst for knowledge. These abstract philosophizings
are personified by “The Dreamer” (Bass), who is more inclined to pessimism in
his search for meaning, and “The Spirit of the Vision” (Soprano), who steadily
leads him and “The Dream Voices” (played by the chorus) on to higher ideals
and into a spiritual state “purged of earthly stain”. Such high spiritual attainment
is achieved … through man’s capacity to help his fellow man and contribute to a
common good. Having played his part, he dies …, yet the “vision” is passed on
to successive generations.55
As Benoliel writes: Parry “manages to combine the humanist concept of man as

a developing species, with a firm belief in the essential divinity of man’s nature”;
however, “there is no assertion of individual immortality” but rather “a ‘limitless
oneness’ which ‘binds us together’.”56
Parry penned his long philosophical text in 19 sections, divided among the
“The Dreamer,” who is given six (that is, sections 1, 5, 7 12, 15, and 17), “The
Spirit of the Vision,” who receives 5 (sections 3, 8, 10, 14, and 18), and “The
Dream Voices,” which are allotted 8 (sections 2, 4, 6, 9, 11, 13, 16, and 19) (see
Chapter 1 Appendix). Linked imaginatively by passages for the orchestra alone,
these sections are presented within an organic structure based upon the symphonic
concept formulated in A Song of Darkness and Light (1898): that is, there is
no separation between arioso solos, contrapuntal or declamatory choruses, and
instrumental interludes, while the role of the orchestra is emphasized. The lengthy
prelude introduces two well-contrasted themes (a and b), which, thoroughly
reworked and transformed, permeate the entire composition (Example 1.1).57
The pensive and severe nature of “The Dreamer” is illustrated most effectively
in the fifth and seventh sections (that is, the second and third of the six) for the bass.
The lines of the former (vocal score, pp. 38–9), “Ye may not rest, O wanderers,”
are musically depicted by restless oscillations initially between V and VI in E
minor (“Ye may not rest, O wanderers, / Time will not wait nor stay the ruthless
rhythm of his march”), the exquisite shift to B@ major with its pungent V9 chord
and harmonic excrescence (“To let life wander in the gardens of delight”), the
seventh chords with their falling diminished fifths (“For other learning is our fate, /
Long weary days to tread and bitter fruit to taste”), and the ascending plod—F–G,
G–A, A–B@, B@–C—to D@ major and, then, B diminished seventh in first inversion
(“Hark to the harsher sound, / The tramp of greed and pride!”). Those of the latter
(pp. 48–50), “To Death must all come,” are represented by a D augmented chord
and, a compositional device Parry relied on frequently to explore his themes, an
ostinato pattern utilizing the head motif of theme a (“To Death must all come / …
/ A little span and they are gone!”).
Dibble thinks the most successful parts of The Vision of Life are those “expressed
through a purely lyrical idiom associated with ‘The Spirit of the Vision’,” and he
cites the eighth section—the second of the soprano’s four sections (pp. 50–53),
“Yet while the roar of power triumphant rings,” especially that portion beginning
with “Such words as held men wondering”—as demonstrating “Parry at his most
eloquent.”58 Yet one must mention the tenth and eighteenth sections (that is, the
third and fifth for the soprano), which epitomize her textual message. The lines
of the former (pp. 62–4), “So near to perfect joy and peace,” are delineated by a
Example 1.1 The Vision of Life by Hubert Parry, introduction, motifs a and b
(vocal score; Novello, 1907), p. 1
tonal/rhythm pattern recurring in various keys (B, e@, D@, and b), based on themes
a and b, while those of the latter (pp. 93–5), “None will be dreaming alone,” are
dispensed via tertian harmonic progressions (B, A@, C, and E), rushing triplets, and
a melody that in its vast range reaches from c#1 to b2.
The raison d’être of festival works was their choruses, several of which in The
Vision of Life are very fine. In section 9 (the fourth of the eight choruses), “The
Empire of the proud ones passeth,” the march-like, haughty music, with its dotted
rhythms and melodic embellishments (lento maestoso, ¦¼ time), underscores the
text executed by the chorus in unison, homophony, and imitative writing featuring
affective suspensions (pp. 54–61) (“The Empire of the proud ones passeth, /
They strive with one another for the sway, / And their reward is ruin”). In the
second portion of section 9 (tranquillo, ³¼), the choral lyricism is supported by
the expressive, singing commentary of the orchestra (“We watch them as we
wander on, / And it is nought to us! / The world is brooding, and we go stumbling
/ Through wrecks of ancient learning”).
In section 16 (the penultimate section for chorus), “Hearken, O brothers,” the
contrasting themes culminate to produce one of the most memorable moments in
the work. Here, the lines of the chorus (“Hearken, O brothers, / To the music of
the song of the world!”) are delivered with a mellifluous and muscular assurance
vis-à-vis an orchestral efflorescence, using theme a, that is repeatedly sweeping
and soaring (see pp. 80–83 and 88–9). It is Parry at his majestic and thrilling best,
where he increases the tension through the masterly manipulation of the tonal
material to build and sustain climax after climax: “Hear the hum of earth and air,
/ Feeding the forests; / Hear the bass of mighty trees, / Spreading, unfolding! /
Hear the tender song of flowers expanding, / Hear the whisper of the green grass
growing, / … / Hear them and love them, / And join in their jubilant song.” The
words of this section are very reminiscent of Walt Whitman in that they echo his
visionary strain-cum-celebration of the real, earthy life. As Parry himself wrote:
“To men who know and understand, the light of day is not ordinary or uninspiring:
all things are full of wonder.”59 And, “Everything that endeavours to beautify
and make lovable the surroundings and the ideas of man is part of devotional
religion. It is devotion to the beautiful aspect of things—the things which minister
to spiritual well-being, to truth.”60
These thoughts may be seen, too, in the preceding section for bass (that is,
15), “Yet in the weltering chaos of waste words,” which exhibits an economical
but preeminent exploitation of harmony. The lines “Yet in the weltering chaos of
waste words, / Slowly the madness of strife and of hatred,” in F major, give way
to “Yields to the spirit of love and of truth” in D@ major; then, a divergence to A
major supports “Dimly the certainties wake in the hearts of men.” What are the
certainties? “Certain and sure are the stars in their courses, / At dawn unfailing the
great sun upriseth [etc.],” which are accompanied by the diatonic and rhythmic
certitudes of Parry’s compositional idiom. They are not Christian certainties but,
as will be iterated in the final chorus, something more akin to an Eastern concept
that “binds eternal life in one.”
Elgar, who was at the Cardiff Festival to conduct The Kingdom, was right
when he concluded that The Vision of Life was “too strong for the Church.”61
But he was very keen on it and always remained so. In a letter (October 1907) to
August Jaeger (his editor at Novello), he wrote: “I say! that ‘Vision’ of Parry is
fine stuff & the poem is literature.”62 To Parry he penned (May 1909): “It’s really
strong bracing stuff and like your odes, some of us love it and love you for giving
us these things.”63 According to Dibble, “during the final rehearsal Elgar sat with
Parry and talked through the work with him, and afterwards marked his vocal
score with the correction of misprints and some suggestions for improvements,
sending it on with an appreciative letter. Parry was greatly touched by this act
of kindness and never forgot it.”64 Notwithstanding Elgar’s attempt to have The
Vision of Life programmed at the Leeds Festival of 1913, it was not given there.
On Elgar’s advice, Parry revised the final chorus, which we will examine below,
for the proposed Norwich Festival of 1914, but the war intervened and the Festival
was cancelled. Much later, the work received its London premiere at St Michael’s
Cornhill, where Harold Darke was Director of Music.
Autograph Manuscripts and the Revised Ending
The creative process of any composer is always to a certain extent shrouded in

mystery. Even the composer himself will not fully understand the psychological
processes by which ideas occur to him, nor remember afterwards exactly how he
put a piece of music together. … any attempt to present a complete picture of his
compositional activity must be doomed. Nevertheless more than enough relevant
documents survive for us to be able to gain considerable insight on the subject.
(Barry Cooper) 65
In view of the fact that so many of Parry’s manuscripts survive,66 it is possible

to examine the autographs of The Vision of Life. Here, we shall offer a physical
description of them before summarizing their significant details and Parry’s
working methods. Deposited in the Bodleian Library as Mus.c.117 is a bound
volume of 260 leaves containing:
(a) (fols. 1–125) a vocal score used by the printer, 1907, almost complete;
(b) (fols. 127–50) a “Revision of finale,” vocal score used by the printer, 1914;
(c) (fols. 151–254) drafts of both versions; and
(d) (fols. 255–64) ten leaves of full score.
Deposited in the Royal College of Music Library as Add. 4213 is a bound volume
containing the complete full score (of 1907) with the original ending and an
incomplete second score (revised in 1914).
For the autograph vocal score, Parry used fourteen-stave manuscript paper
and black ink. He wrote only on the recto side of the manuscript leaves; though,
occasionally, one finds corrections or notations on the verso side. Concerning the
original ending, specifically, none of the verso sides have been used (excepting
f. 125v, which includes Parry’s name and mailing address in London). The
calligraphy is large, bold, and unlike the small, neat penmanship one encounters
in Parry’s diaries, lectures, and letters. As a result, the manuscript is rather untidy.
Contributing to this state are the pencil, and red and blue pencil, markings added,
perhaps, by the printer in preparation for engraving the score (for example,
rehearsal letters are added, though numbers are found in the printed score, as are
character markings and dynamics, and notes are clarified, etc.).
Folio 7 is omitted from the autograph; thus, in the published vocal score, the
music is missing from five measures after rehearsal number 6 (p. 6) to rehearsal
number 7 (p. 7). Folio 34 has been cut in half and pasted on the top of the succeeding
folio (the bottom half is labeled f. 35); thus, in the published vocal score, the music
is missing from the bottom of page 31 to the top of page 33 (which corresponds
to f. 34). On the bottom of page 54, the opening phrase has been changed slightly
from that of f. 61: the b@1 on the first beat of the second measure is a g1 in the
autograph. After f. 64, the music is omitted (though the folios are not interrupted in
their numbered sequence) from page 58, one measure after rehearsal number 32, to
page 61, first system, third measure. Folios 66–67 are out of order in the binding.
These two folios feature the music from page 59, first system, third measure to
page 60, first system, fourth measure (f. 66), and from page 60, first system, fourth
measure to page 61, first system, third measure (f. 67).
The original ending (a) is 53 measures in length, whereas the revised ending
(b) is considerably longer at 188 measures from the point of revision. The original
ending begins on f. 118, first system (there are two systems only contained on the
folio), second measure. The text is: “Seeking to make it of worth to each brother”
(and the revision begins at “worth”—see page 101 in the vocal score, second
system, third measure). Following this on f. 127, the revised ending corresponds
to the top of page 101 with “Passing on life….”
The drafts of both versions (c) exhibit pages that alternate between what
may be defined as a sketch, rough draft, and draft proper. A sketch consists of
the creation of initial ideas and re-workings of compositional problems; a rough
draft usually commences in the same manner as a draft proper but the notation is
exceptionally arduous to decipher because of the quickness at which it was penned
and a higher degree of alteration than normal; a draft proper is uninterrupted and
contains material that is in a comparatively fixed state, although further emendation
was often needed. The drafts are extremely untidy and reveal that Parry spent
considerable effort—formulating, re-working, clarifying, and revising initial and
subsequent ideas and passages—on the opening bass solo, “From utmost distance
of the dreams of thought,” and on the second ending, especially the following
sections, in this order, “Where faith is, there is strength,” “Onwards! Onwards
and upwards,” and “Awake, ye that live in darkness!” Throughout the drafts, the
inscription of compositional material varies from one or two measures to four
systems per page: the former for germinal ideas, the latter for longer passages.
The music does not appear on consecutive pages, recto/verso, rather the pages are
in broken succession.
The complete full score, measuring c. 10 inches by 14 inches, is written
on 26-stave (Bellamy) paper (that is, stamped “H. Lard-Esnault, Ed. Bellamy
Sr., Paris”), (mostly) recto/verso, in black ink with annotations, additions, and
emendations in red ink, pencil and blue pencil. The calligraphy is neater, though
unlovely. On the bottom of page 1, one finds the pencil annotation—“The
additional parts at [present] / under the rest of the score / are to be inserted in
the new score in their proper places / CHHP”—which references Parry’s 1914
revision. These additional parts—for example, here, Piccolo, Corno Inglese, Bass
Clarinet, Contra Fagotto; there, Harp, Cymbals, Drums—and other instructions
on almost every page—for example, “add Trumpet,” “add 3rd Horn”—cause
the score to be exceedingly untidy and tedious to read. The additional parts are
written in red ink and appear (separately and in various groupings) at the bottom
of many pages beneath the other systems of music (Figure 1.1). However, after
pages 1–2—one page (a recto and an overleaf)—Parry inserted re-drafted pages
1–2 with the following instructions in the top, left-hand margin: Sample page for
order of instruments: Piccolo / Flute 1 & 2 / Oboe 1 & 2 / Corno Inglesi / Clarinets
in B@ / Bass Clarinets in B@ / Fagotti / Contra Fagotti / Horns in F / Trumpets in F
1 & 2 / Trombones / Bass Trombone / Tuba / Harp / Organ / Timpani / Big drum /
Cymbals / Violin 1 / Violin 2 / Viola / Soprano Solo / Bass Solo / Chorus / Cellos
/ Double Bass.
The autograph full score is at its messiest in the large choruses, where Parry
increases the size of the orchestra for tutti/climactic passages and crowds the
manuscript paper in the process. “Pride, possession, / The passion of power!”
(piano-vocal score pp. 43–8; autograph pp. 76–86) and “Hearken O brothers / To
the music of the song” (piano-vocal score p. 80; autograph pp. 170–83) exemplify
this treatment, but it may be seen to a lesser extent in “To us only is the truth
known” (for TB chorus), together with the episode that precedes and follows
it (piano-vocal score p. 65; autograph pp. 122–39) and “This is mine! Out on
thee!,” beginning in the bass solo four measures before rehearsal 43 (“Snatching,
grasping, lying, cheating!”) (piano-vocal score p. 71; autograph pp. 148–51).
The original ending may be found on pages 209–17, with each page being
crossed out. Inserted thereafter is the revised ending (Figure 1.2). Written on
24-stave (Bellamy) paper, it begins, too, with page 209 and is contained on
pages 209 to 239, though the only page numbered is 209. (The revised score
was executed, perhaps, at Parry’s London home, for “17 Kensington Square” is
indicated on several of the pages, an example of which is page 239, which displays
only Parry’s signature and address.) It is a much tidier autograph, and easier to
read, than the 1907 autograph score. The instrumentation is in the right order from
top to bottom, though notated at the foot of the score on pages 228–38, 233–4, and
235–8 are additional parts for organ, drums, and harp, respectively.
In common with all of Parry’s autograph scores, on the complete full score
(1907) the composer indicates the key signatures only at the beginning of a
Figure 1.1 The Vision of Life (1907), full score, GB-Lcm Add. 4213, p. 1
movement, section or solo, and thereafter pages of manuscript simply have no key
signatures (clefs and time signatures are treated in the same fashion). Page 35, a
sketch of page 34, has been crossed out. Page 94 is crossed out. Page 111 features
two initial crossed-out measures. Page 129 is crossed out. Page 137 features two
crossed-out measures; page 145 features three crossed-out measures. Page 158 is
Figure 1.2 The Vision of Life (1914), full score, GB-Lcm Add. 4213, p. 209
crossed out completely. Page 162 features two initial crossed-out measures. Page
173 is crossed out completely.
Let us examine more closely the two endings. The original final chorus consists
of six stanzas; musically, these form a large paragraph grouped into three episodes
(2 + 2 + 2), with the second providing musical contrast to the first and third. In
the initial episode (moderato tranquillo, ¦¼), a cantabile melody—the couplets of
each stanza are organized into periodic structure—is executed by the altos and
basses, then sopranos and tenors, in E and G. The central episode is in two parts.
In the first one (poco meno mosso), the chorus declaims the lines of stanza three
in a mighty forte unison, punctuated by descending chromatic chords, G6, c 24
D , g#o7, eo  , D+6, g#o¦½, e7, D+6, b, g#o7, and D7 (with theme a); in the second part
(tranquillo, þ¼), the musical material is shaped into a hymn that the chorus sings
(legato) over a G pedal. The last episode (moderato, ¦¼) corresponds to the first,
though the melody of each stanza, in E and A, is varied because of the higher
tessitura and the changing harmonic scheme, which progresses in the former from
E through f#, c#, and f# to E, and in the latter from A through b, E, A, and c# to
E. An orchestral interlude comprising the conflation of themes a and b serves to
introduce the last episode, and it (and the entire work) closes with the soaring
orchestral gesture seen in section 16.
The poetic scheme Parry used in the last chorus produced insipid passages,
especially the final two stanzas where he mixed rhyming couplets with alternate
end lines:
We sing the quest of the soul of man,

The same that he sang when his travels began.
To purge out the paltry and vain and base,
To make our world a joyous place.
To find the true and to know its worth,
And to claim it for all as the right of their birth.
We sing the joy of winning the way

To fellowship boundless and frank as the sea,
To all goodwill!—To all the light of day!
And hearts that beat high in a world of the free!
The music it evoked was uninspired and prosaic (Example 1.2). Parry sought to
remedy this deficiency by revising the last episode; the new construct he devised
removed much of the end rhyme and was longer than the original (188 measures
versus 53).
It consists of three stanzas, rather than two, organized into distinctly different
musical episodes, the third of which contains several internal divisions.67
Awake, ye that live in darkness!

Darkness serveth not for deeds of light.
Awake, ye that love folly!
Folly is no making for the life of man.
Awake, ye that heed not man’s worth,
And laugh to see him faint and fall!
Awake ye that mock at the right,
Ye counsellors of corruption!
Example 1.2 The Vision of Life by Hubert Parry, “We sing the quest of the soul of
man” (vocal score; Novello, 1907), p. 102
Ye cannot stay the Sun.

Where faith is there is strength!
Where truth is there is joy!
Where trust is there is love,
Where love is there is heaven!
Onwards! Onwards and upwards

The path hath ever been;
Onwards! Onwards and Sunwards!
The traveller’s way will be!
From hand to hand the token passeth on,
Though millions after millions pass away;
Another takes the quest when our life’s tale is done,
Come night to us, to others comes the day.
Hands across the ages,
Voices echoing voices,
Heartbeat answering heartbeat,
Joy surging triumphant;
The vision binds eternal life in one.
In the initial episode (animando, ³¼), the setting is a compelling dramatic recitative:
the melodic segments of the strophes are declaimed forcefully and majestically
by the chorus, in unison at their commencement and in parts at their end, with
each strophe being propelled by the momentum of the quickly changing harmonic
progressions and the cadenza-like commentary of the orchestra (Example 1.3).
More precisely, the disposition of the melodic segments that are used to set the
first strophe results in a nine-measure asymmetrical phrase (3 + 1 + 5). The three
measures for the first line move rapidly via a one-measure orchestral interpolation
to the five measures for the second line, tonally from E to A to C, while the cadential
repose expected at the end is, rather, the harmonic spring-board for the orchestral
interlude that leads to the subsequent strophes treated in a similar fashion.
The second episode (A@, lento tranquillo, ¦¼) is a serene and sonorous setting
of the second stanza, the lovely orchestral interlude ushering in the moving
and touching antiphony between soprano solo and the chorus in A@, C, e, and
A@. The mild enrichment of the harmonic texture, with various non-chord tones,
is intensified in the first part of the final episode, there becoming a structural
principle with its almost unending series of resolving retardations, suspensions,
and appoggiaturas. Moreover, the treatment of the soprano foreshadows the last
pages of the work, where it floats above the choral-orchestral fabric in a passage
of great beauty.
The last episode (poco animando, espressivo, ¼ ¦ ) commences with the orchestral
material, mentioned above, which supports the execution of the initial eight lines of
the last stanza (in two sections, 4 + 4). A shift from the placid to the grandiose occurs
rapidly as the impassioned choral writing, buttressed by tonally fluid progressions,
Example 1.3 The Vision of Life by Hubert Parry, “Awake, ye that live in darkness”
surges toward a fugato of the subsequent four lines (S/T/B/A, S/A/B/T, A/T/S/B),
fortissimo and animando. The effect is intense, overwhelming, and profound. Yet
there is no abatement to the athletic thrust, and the choral-orchestral discourse
culminates in a magnificent ¼þ contrapuntal dialectic for divisi voices (SSAATB) of
the penultimate line. The expanded paragraph concludes with a ½ ² codetta of the last
line, “The vision binds eternal life in one,” the soprano radiant against the chorus,
diverging to the flat submediant, C, before the last statement of E.
A Work of Historical Importance
In closing, an examination of The Vision of Life autographs and draft material

reveals aspects of Parry’s working methods that may be listed as follows. The
composer’s alterations, cuts, and insertions are concerned with
1. melodic and harmonic alterations (small and large scale),

2. texture, sonority, and individual tone color, and
3. beginnings, endings, and especially areas of exceptional harmonic, melodic,
or rhythmic complexity.
Lastly, it is clear that Parry continued to revise his musical texts during the stages
of rehearsal, performance, proofing, and publication. Thus “any attempt to discuss
definitive versions of Parry’s works is somewhat problematic, as it is likely that
any subsequent rehearsals, performances or editions would have produced further
alterations.”68
The revision of the final chorus was a significant improvement. As a stronger
utterance, it replaced the weaker original ending that was insufficient as a finale
for such a monumental work with symphonic aspirations. However, the balance
and symmetry of the last section, dependent upon the consequent function
of the original third episode to the first’s antecedent, was lost to the protracted
revision. There are other imperfections in The Vision of Life: a few overwrought
choruses, aimless interludes, and saccharine ariosi, which detract from an
otherwise impressive score. Nevertheless, these should not diminish the historical
importance of the work. Vaughan Williams investigated his vision of life in A Sea
Symphony and Elgar explored the idea of “The Dreamer” in The Music Makers.
Benoliel believes The Soul’s Ransom is “the link work between The Dream of
Gerontius (1900) and the Sea Symphony (1909)”;69 however, this imposing work,
to Lewis Foreman, “does not have quite the memorable invention of some other
Parry choral works, and its championship at the expense of alternative revivals
may yet be seen to be misplaced.”70 Perhaps The Vision of Life is that alternative,
but we shall never know unless the work can be evaluated in performance.
Parry’s ethical apologia suffered the same fate of so many of his works; it
became an academic interest, frequently cited, but rarely performed. That has been
the fate of other musical legacies. Works are created, only to become forgotten
and obscure; some are rediscovered and, eventually, cherished. This is a common
cycle of decay and restoration in our culture: the new becomes the old; the old
becomes unfashionable; then, in a later age, the unfashionable is rehabilitated.
Perhaps, someday, The Vision of Life will be resurrected by some committed
conductor and performing organization, for, as Parry wrote: “The heavens are full
of visions, / The air is full of voices / And we are faint with longing / To hear the
message clearly.”71
Chapter 1 Appendix: The of The Vision of Life (1907/revised 1914) by

Hubert Parry
[1.] The Dreamer
From utmost distance of the dreams of thought,

The long procession comes;
Shadows that follow shadows.
Changeless in change, tireless in weary wandering

Death strews the path, yet the living ever come!
Millions on millions!
No echo of their speech

No sign of what they were;
No wakening to wonder
Of tokens that their passing left upon the way.
Lost in long night, where no light gleams,
They passed, and passed
And were forgot.
[2.] The Dream Voices
We wandered aimless in a world of dread;

Wherever life was, death lurked;
We knew not hope, for us knowledge was not,
By the law of our being strife was begotten.
The weak grew strong in wariness;
Cunning and craft were his weapons;
He shunned the light in secret places,
And slew for safety, and found none!
The Lords of the tempest thundered;
The flame from the cloud consumed us,
The wielder of winds o’erwhelmed us,
The frosts of the night numbed us.
Homeless and houseless,

In caves and in clefts,
We hid from the terror
Of tempest and torrent,
Cowering, thirsting, shivering, starving, dying,
While the host wandered on.
[3.] The Spirit of the Vision
Yet shines the life-sustaining Sun!

The countless stars in their allotted courses move;
Day follows night with changeless constancy;
The world its circling course fulfils,
And while the ages wander by
The weltering tumult winds its helpless way,
From out the deeps of darkness and despair
Into the light of dawn.
The weary faces brighten as they fare;
The words we know and welcome as our own,
That tell of radiant youth that revels in itself,
And looks on life with eyes of wondering joy,
With hands outstretched to grasp the cup and drain it,
Tumultuous, eager, thronging on their way,
They take and turn to joy,
All that the wakening world can give.
[4.] The Dream Voices
To us is the glory of beauty revealed,

The glory of all that gladdens the eye;
The beauty of suppleness,
The beauty of speed,
Of litheness of limb and the wondrous fairness of face.
To us is revealed the wonder of words,

The wonders of thought and the passion of tears.
To us is revealed the delight in great deeds,
The joy in the prowess of peerless men,
The strife of the gods and the heroes.
We wielded the sword and the spear,

The bow we bent in the battle,
We drank to the depths the cup of the frenzy of fight!
We won the welcome triumphant!
The welcome of home-coming warriors,
The shout of the saved to their saviours;
The salt sea stayed us not,
The mountains delayed us not,
Forest and valley betrayed us not.
We won to knowledge and wisdom,
We learnt the lore of the heavens,
We knew the sun that shone for us,

The stars that made gay the sky for us,
The moon whose silvery light
Made wonderful the watches of the night!
To us the gods gave freedom and a radiant world,

Our way was flower-strewn,
Ringing with gladness and song.
[5.] The Dreamer
Ye may not rest, O wanderers,

Time will not wait nor stay the ruthless rhythm of his march
To let life wander in the gardens of delight.
For other learning is your fate,

Long weary ways to tread and bitter fruit to taste
Ere to the longed-for haven ye win.
Hark to the harsher sound,

The tramp of greed and pride!
[6.] The Voices
Pride! possession! the passion of power!

To us the world and its wealth!
To us the glory of greatness!
To us the dominant dower of Empire!
The free under foot are trodden.

As slaves are they herded to serve us,
As slaves shall they slay one another,
To glut our greed for bloodshed.
Kings shall go fawning for favour.

Chieftains of the vanquished shall go chained to our chariots.
The glitter and splendour of gold and of purple,

The shimmer of steel, the thunder of triumphs,
Luxury, licence, wanton and limitless!
What care we when mastery wins to defiance?
Where none dare question no right but might!
And that right runs through the world!
[7.] The Dreamer
To Death must all come!

How huge soe’er the mocking semblance looms,
And all the world should be enslaved
To minister to measureless desire.
Victor and vanquished, spoiler and despoiled,
A little span and they are gone!
Yet while the roar of power triumphant rings,

A single voice, from lands remote and wild,
From humble cot of lowly peasant folk
Speaks to the travellers as they toil along
Such words as held men wondering.
Such bidding to bethink them of their need,
Such teaching of the nothingness of pride
Beside the joy of faithful brotherhood,
That ever after all the path was changed.
A heaven dawned upon their way,
Far off, and dimly dreamed,
Encircled with a halo of desire;
And they forgot the roughness of the road,
The weary limbs, the parched throat,
The blows, the scars, the tears,
In watching far away a beacon in the sky.
[9.] The Voices
The Empire of the proud ones passeth,

They strive with one another for the sway,
And their reward is ruin.
We watch them as we wander on,

And it is nought to us!
The world is brooding, and we go stumbling
Through wrecks of ancient learning.
The heavens are full of visions,
The air is full of voices,
And we are faint with longing
To hear the message clearly.
The spirit within us
Striveth and seeketh.
The old life is over,

The new is yet dawning.
So near to perfect joy and peace,

Their souls fulfilled with faith and love,
They linger, earthly lures forgot,
Wrapt in a dream of hope.
Does not the toilsome pathway end

Full soon and near, the haven won,
The pledge of all desire attained,
Rest to the weary given?
Yet onwards still the shadows come,

Relentless need their steps constraining;
The voice that called them growth dumb,
The light of love is waning.
[11.] The Voices
To us only is the truth known,

Ours the word that bringeth safety.
To us heaven’s portals are open,
Heirs are we of endless glory.
They that heed shall be harried,

Flame and sword shall be their portion.
March we onwards never failing,

Sure of foot and sure of future!
[12.] The Dreamer
Faint, faint the beacon light,

Cloud, mist and gloom once more.
The pathway lost, men cry to one another in the dark,
This way, and that way,
Deep in the hollows,
High in the bleak fells,
Striving and falling,
Wrestling and clamouring,
Working confusion,
Each laying hold of the thing that is nearest,

Snatching—grasping—lying—cheating!
[13.] The Voices
This is mine, out on thee,

Slave that hast no rights!
Starve thou, the bread is mine!
Thirst thou, the wine is mine!
Hide thee in hovels!
Thou and thy foul brood!
Rot in the gutter!
Die in the ditch!
The earth is mine!
Its fruit is mine!
Its wealth is mine!
Thou shalt not rest,
Thou shalt not hope,
Thou shalt not think,
Thou shalt not breathe
But at my will!
Ah! Baleful dower of blinded self,

The prize is poisoned!
Surfeit and despair
Are mingled in the cup the victor drains.
Red is the wild revenge the vanquished claim,
Red the swift horror of descending steel
That slays the guiltless with the vilest
In raging thirst to right such wrong.
[15.] The Dreamer
Yet in the weltering chaos of waste words,

Slowly the madness of strife and of hatred
Yields to the sprit of love and of truth,
Dimly the certainties wake in the hearts of men!
Certain and sure are the stars in their courses,
At dawn upfailing the great Sun upriseth;
As summer follows the spring,
As seed-time follows the flower-time,
As waves are wind-born,
And green grass rain-born;

As bird is not wingless,
Nor flame without fuel,
So are there mounting up
Witnessing certainties,
Day by day,
Year by year,
Age by age,
Ever and always,
Marvellous, obedient, faithful and fruitful.
[16.] The Voices
Hearken, O brothers,
To the music of the song of the world!
Hear the hum of earth and air,
Feeding the forests;
Hear the bass of mighty trees,
Spreading, unfolding!
Hear the tender song of flowers expanding,
Hear the whisper of the green grass growing,
Hear the rustle of the wheat ripening,
Hear the shout of roistering winds,
Rousing the echoes,
Rousing the thunder
Of wild thronging waves!
Hear the mighty harmony of all the powers unseen,
Orderly, steadfastly, each in their ministry
Ceaselessly singing!
Hear them and love them,
And join in their jubilant song.
[17.] The Dreamer
Nearer they come, and ever more near!

Of our own time they are, and here!
And sweeping onwards in an endless stream,
No longer phantoms of a dream.
The form of each is clear!

There a dear familiar face!
There a friend long lost!
A child, a loved one!
Maybe there—myself!
A spectral shadow,
Doomed to strive a little space
And pass away.
What help! is there no stay,
No word of solace,
Nor a word of greeting anywhere,
To one left dreaming here alone?
None will be dreaming alone,

Nor hungering vainly for comfort!
See in the infinite distance
Where the unbroken flood moves on,
How hope and helpfulness unwearied
Make all the path a radiant mead;
And brother sees in the eyes of brother
The trust that makes toil’s best reward.
They hold out hands to help the faint,
To make the stumbling footsteps sure;
They sing the song of spirits freed
From pride and fear and barren greed;
They sing the song of spirits undaunted,
Of sprits purged of earthly stain,
The everlasting song of the way made plain.
[19.] The Voices
We praise the men of the days long gone,

Faithful and brave, loyal and sure,
Who cleared the path their firmness won,
Making it plain for men unborn and for all time secure.
We think with love of those who fell,

Lost in the stress, living in vain;
Who knew not light nor wisdom’s spell,
Wandering helpless, maimed and blind, condemned to helpless pain!
Wise ones or worthless,

Helpful or hindering,
Martyrs or cowards,
Heroes or cravens,
All pace the same path,
All face the same death.
Limitless oneness binds us together,

Passing on life from one to another;
Seeking to solve it,
Seeking to know it,
Seeking to make it of worth to each brother.
[We sing the quest of the soul of man,

The same that he sang when his travels began.
To purge out the paltry and vain and base,
To make of our world a joyous place.
To find the true and to know its worth,
And to claim it for all as the right of their birth.
We sing the joy of winning the way

To fellowship boundless and frank as the sea,
To all goodwill!—To all the light of day!
And hearts that beat high in a world of the free!]
[1914 revision]
[Awake, ye that live in darkness!

Darkness serveth not for deeds of light.
Awake, ye that love folly!
Folly is no making for the life of man.
Awake, ye that heed not man’s worth,
And laugh to see him faint and fall!
Awake ye that mock at the right,
Ye counsellors of corruption!
Ye cannot stay the Sun.
The Spirit of the Vision and The Voices
Where faith is there is strength!

Where truth is there is joy!
Where trust is there is love,
Where love is there is heaven!
The Voices
Onwards! Onwards and upwards

The path hath ever been;
Onwards! Onwards and Sunwards!
The traveller’s way will be!

From hand to hand the token passeth on,
Though millions after millions pass away;
Another takes the quest when our life’s tale is done,
Come night to us, to others comes the day.
Hands across the ages,
Voices echoing voices,
Heartbeat answering heartbeat,
Joy surging triumphant;
The Spirit of the Vision and The Voices.
The vision binds eternal life in one.]

Notes
1 Frank Howes, The English Musical Renaissance (London, 1966), p. 130.

2 Stephen Banfield, Gerald Finzi: An English Composer (London, 1997); Diana
McVeagh, Gerald Finzi: His Life and Music (Woodbridge, 2005); Leo Black,
Edmund Rubbra: Symphonist (Woodbridge, 2008); Ralph Scott Grover, The Music
of Edmund Rubbra (Aldershot, 1993), Jeremy Dibble, Charles Villiers Stanford:
Man and Musician (Oxford, 2002); Paul Rodmell, Charles Villiers Stanford
(Aldershot, 2002).
3 Alain Frogley (ed.), Vaughan Williams Studies (Cambridge, 1996); Byron Adams
and Robin Wells (eds), Vaughan Williams Essays (Aldershot, 2003).
4 Charles Edward McGuire, Elgar’s Oratorios: The Creation of an Epic Narrative
(Aldershot, 2002); Alain Frogley, Vaughan Williams’s Ninth Symphony (Oxford,
2001).
5 Meirion Hughes, The English Musical Renaissance and the Press 1850–1914:
Watchmen of Music (Aldershot, 2002), an excrescence of an earlier book co-
authored with Robert Stradling, The English Musical Renaissance 1860–1940:
Construction and Deconstruction (London and New York, 1993), revised as
The English Musical Renaissance 1840–1940: Constructing a National Music
(Manchester, 2001). Many other titles may be listed, for example Graham Parlett,
A Catalogue of the Works of Sir Arnold Bax (Oxford, 1999); Stewart R. Craggs,
Arthur Bliss: A Source Book (Aldershot, 1996); Robert Anderson, Elgar (New
York, 1993); Robert Anderson, Elgar in Manuscript (London, 1990); Percy M.
Young, Elgar, Newman and The Dream of Gerontius in the Tradition of English
Catholicism (Aldershot, 1995); John C. Dressler, Gerald Finzi: A Bio-Bibliography
(Westport, CT, 1997); Pamela Blevins, Ivor Gurney and Marion Scott: Song of Pain
and Beauty (Woodbridge, 2008); Michael Short, Gustav Holst: The Man and His
Music (Oxford, 1990); Paul Spicer, Herbert Howells (Bridgend, 1998); Rosemary
Williamson, William Sterndale Bennett: A Descriptive Thematic Catalogue
(Oxford, 1996); Lewis Foreman (ed.), Vaughan Williams in Perspective: Studies
of an English Composer (London, 1998); Wilfrid Mellers, Vaughan Williams and
the Vision of Albion (London, 1989; London, revised and expanded, 1997); Barry
Smith, Peter Warlock: The Life of Philip Heseltine (Oxford, 1994); Bennett Zon
(ed.), Nineteenth-Century British Music Studies, vol. 1 (Aldershot, 1999). These are
but a few; the list is exceeding long and formidable.
6 Jeremy Dibble, C. Hubert H. Parry: His Life and Music (Oxford, 1992); Bernard
Benoliel, Parry before Jerusalem: Studies of His Life and Music (Aldershot, 1997);
Anthony Boden, The Parrys of the Golden Vale: Background to Genius (London,
1998); Michael Allis, Parry’s Creative Process (Aldershot, 2003).
7 Dibble, Parry, p. viii.
8 Ibid.
9 Benoliel, p. ix.
10 Ibid., p. x.
11 Ibid., p. 23.
12 Ibid., p. 13.
13 Ibid., p. 65.
14 Ibid., p. 70.
15 Ibid., p. 121. As Graves wrote: “From the age of twenty-three to that of seventy
his religious opinions underwent no substantial change, but he learned to curb his
tongue, and this increased consideration for the feelings of others led to a certain
misconception of his attitude. … There can be no doubt that some misconstrued his
action, and inferred that he had changed his views. The evidence of his own most
intimate self-revelations and of those who knew him best in his later years fail to
confirm this conclusion.” Charles L. Graves, Hubert Parry: His Life and Works, 2
vols (London, 1926), vol. 2, pp. 152–3.
16 Benoliel, p. 116.
17 Boden.
18 Ibid., pp. 157 and 226.
19 Allis, p. 3.
20 Ibid., pp. 4–5.
21 Ibid., p. 5.
22 Hughes’s book investigated the critics and composers (Sullivan, Parry, Elgar) of
the English Musical Renaissance, which was a construct invented by nineteenth-
century music journalists. As a metaphorical label, it identified the project to provide
England with a national music equal to, or surpassing that, of other countries,
Austro-Germany being the model; it signified by its connotations of rebirth and
resurrection a revival of music composition that had been moribund for decades; it
posited an English rather than a British locus, the former adjective being reserved
by Victorians and Edwardians for cultural matters, the latter for political ones; and
it entered into the musicological discourse, because of its power and resonance,
where it remains today as a viable topic of academic research.
23 Ibid., p. 138.
24 Ibid., p. 142.
25 Ibid., p. 146.
26 Ibid., p. 149.
27 Ibid., p. 148.
28 Ibid., p. 138.
29 Ibid., p. 160.
30 Ibid., p. 159.
31 Graves, vol. 1, p. vi.
32 Dibble, Parry, pp. vii–viii.
33 The following is a typical summary of Parry’s life. Parry (1848–1918) was one of
the architects of the English Musical Renaissance. He joined the faculty of the Royal
College of Music (RCM) at its inception in 1883 as professor of music history and
of composition. In the former role, already he had written essays of extraordinary
insight for George Grove’s Dictionary of Music and Musicians, but he had only
begun the composition of his enormous musical oeuvre. His appealing social
background and his education at a prestigious public school (Eton) and an ancient
university (Oxford) were a significant reason for his appointment. While he was at
prep school at Malvern (1856–58) and Twyford (1858–61), his musical training was
entrusted to local organists, such as Edward Brind at Highnam Church, and Samuel
Sebastian Wesley at Winchester and Gloucester Cathedrals. Thereafter, he chose to
attend Eton (1861–66), where he received tuition (1863–66) from George Elvey
at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor, and Exeter College, Oxford University (1867–
70), where he read law and modern history but received no formal instruction in
music. During the summer of 1867, he traveled to Stuttgart, Germany to study

with the English expatriate Henry Hugo Pierson, who gave him the only training in
orchestration he would ever receive. In 1873, Parry settled permanently in London.
There, he continued his studies for a brief time with William Sterndale Bennett
before he established a long association with the Wagnerite Edward Dannreuther, a
brilliant pianist of German extraction, who became his keyboard instructor, mentor,
and close friend. Ultimately, Parry’s indefatigable professional activities led to
public accolades. In 1895, he succeeded Grove as director of the RCM, and in
1898, he was knighted in recognition of his services to British music. In 1900, he
was appointed Heather Professor of Music at Oxford, where in 1884 he had been
awarded an honorary doctorate (in 1883 the University of Cambridge had bestowed
a similar honor) and made Choragus to the university. In 1902, on the occasion
of King Edward’s coronation, for which he essayed “I Was Glad,” universally
recognized as a masterpiece of ceremonial music, he was made a baronet. Thus
Parry’s place in music history as one of the pivotal figures in the renaissance of
English music is based on his brilliant didacticism, composition, and scholarly
writing, perhaps his greatest contribution, and his example was a model on which
subsequent English composers patterned their lives.
34 Howes, p. 129.
35 Ibid.
36 Ibid., p. 130.
37 Stephen Banfield, Sensibility and English Song: Critical Studies of the Early
Twentieth Century, 2 vols (Cambridge, 1985), pp. 19–25 passim.
38 Ibid., p. 21.
39 Ibid., p. 20.
40 Graves, vol. 2, p. 117.
41 Boden, pp. 234–5.
42 Banfield, Sensibility and English Song, p. 20.
43 Benoliel, pp. 86–7.
44 See for example Allis, p. 14.
45 Hughes, p. 146.
46 Graves, vol. 2, pp. 194–5.
47 Benoliel, p. 34.
48 Dibble, Parry, p. 290.
49 Ibid.
50 Benoliel, p. 64.
52 Ibid., p. 315.
53 Boden, p. 213.
54 Benoliel, p. 66.
56 Benoliel, pp. 90–91.
57 The music examples that follow are taken from Parry, The Vision of Life (Novello,
1907), piano-vocal score, unless otherwise indicated.
59 Graves, vol. 2, p. 155.
60 Ibid., vol. 2, p. 157.
61 Ibid., vol. 2, p. 49.
62 Gerrold Northrop Moore, Edward Elgar: A Creative Life (Oxford, 1984), pp. 518–
19.
63 Graves, vol. 2, p. 49.
64 Dibble, Parry, p. 421. The vocal score and Elgar’s comments do not survive.
65 Barry Cooper, Beethoven and the Creative Process (Oxford, 1990), p. 1.
66 Parry’s manuscripts—most of which were dispersed to several institutions after his
death—are now housed in three magisterial collections. In 1921, a large number
were deposited in the RCM Library, and complemented by additional manuscripts
from Novello, Parry’s main publisher, in 1925–30, and 1964. Thus the RCM
possesses the full scores of most of the choral and orchestral works, full scores
of the incidental music and some orchestrations of selected songs, the piano score
of Guenever, and parts for the Wind Nonet and String Quintet. In 1952–53, at
the request of Dorothea Ponsonby, Parry’s eldest daughter, Gerald Finzi gathered
together more manuscript material, which was given to the Bodleian Library in
Oxford. In 1959, this, too, was increased by material found at Parry’s London
address, 17 Kensington Square, and, as a result, the Bodleian collection includes
most of the chamber music, church music, organ works, songs, and drafts of choral
and piano music. The last repository of manuscript material is Shulbrede Priory in
Lynchmere, on the Surrey/Sussex border, which from 1905 onwards was owned
by Parry’s daughter and son-in-law, and which is presently occupied by Parry’s
great-granddaughters and their family. The manuscripts include sketches and drafts
of songs, piano, organ, chamber, and orchestral music, along with the autograph
full score of De Profundis; also contained in this collection are Parry’s diaries,
notebooks, and sketchbooks.
67 Parry, The Vision of Life (Novello, 1914), piano-vocal score.
68 Allis, p. 169.
69 Benoliel, p. 97.
70 Lewis Foreman (ed.), Music in England 1885–1920 as recounted in Hazell’s Annual
(London, 1994).
71 Parry, The Vision of Life (1907/revised 1914), lines extracted from [9.] The Voices
(see the Appendix).
Chapter 2
Voces Clamantium and Beyond These Voices
There Is Peace: The Embodiment of Parry’s
Character Polarities
[Finzi described] “two streams” in Parry, “the Puritan and the man of feeling”, the
“romantic … fighting Wagner’s battles in England” and the Apollonian musician
“look[ing] back to Bach”. (Stephen Banfield)1
The Cantatas Performed
Several of the ethical cantatas by Parry were never entirely forgotten, or benefited
from the revivals of his music, during the twentieth century. Voces Clamantium
(Motet) and The Love That Casteth Out Fear (Sinfonia Sacra), composed for the
Hereford and Gloucester Festivals of 1903 and 1904, respectively, were favored
by H. Walford Davies, who performed them regularly with organ accompaniment
at the Temple Church, where he was Director of Music (1898–1923).2 His
successor, G. Thalben-Ball (1923–81), who was an adherent of Parry, continued to
present his music at the Temple Church and, moreover, was involved in the 1921
presentation of Voces Clamantium at St. Michael’s Cornhill, where Harold Darke
was Director of Music (1916–66); Darke conducted and Thalben-Ball played
the organ. Darke, too, was an exponent of Parry’s works, regularly performing
them, and in addition to Voces Clamantium presented the London premiere of
The Vision of Life. Though Voces Clamantium was heard at Gloucester in 1928, it
was not until 1981 that it was recorded by Jonathan Rennert, Darke’s successor at
St. Michael’s Cornhill, who conducted while, remarkably, Thalben-Ball returned
to the console to accompany as he had sixty years earlier.3 Additionally, in the
same year, Voces Clamantium was performed with orchestra by the Kensington
Symphony Orchestra and Choir conducted by Leslie Head.4
The Soul’s Ransom, composed for the Hereford Festival of 1906, also received
latter-day performances. In 1981, the “Sinfonia Sacra” was given at Haddo
House, near Aberdeen, with a new full score and parts commissioned by the Ralph
Vaughan Williams Trust. Subsequently, in 1983, presentations occurred in London
by the BBC Club Choir and Orchestra, conducted by Ronald Corp, and in 1985
at the Bach Choir’s all-Parry Concert. In 1991, The Soul’s Ransom was recorded
by The London Philharmonic Choir and The London Philharmonic conducted
by Matthias Bamert,5 whereas, in 1998, during the Parry year, the arresting and
imposing score was included in the programs at Gloucester.
Beyond These Voices There Is Peace, composed for the Worcester Festival of
1908 (and repeated at Gloucester in 1910), was admired in part or in whole by a
number of individuals. The conductor, pedagogue, and Bach scholar William G.
Whittaker (1876–1944) attempted to revive the work without success, but it was
never completely disregarded.6 The chorus, “To everything there is a season,” with
its baroque counterpoint and ritornello structure, was appreciated by Gerald Finzi
and Ralph Vaughan Williams, the former of whom described it as representing
“that sense of serene well-being which Parry’s music can convey” and one aspect
of Parry’s “two streams”: “‘the Puritan and the man of feeling’, the ‘romantic …
fighting Wagner’s battles in England’ and the Apollonian musician ‘look[ing] back
to Bach’”.7 Herbert Howells was impressed with the expanded harmonic treatment
and orchestral disposition of the ethical cantatas and, specifically, with Beyond
These Voices There Is Peace, writing:
What we may call the ethical cantatas of the Edwardian decade were a
tremendous enterprise, requiring perhaps a more extended harmonic thought
and—even more urgently—a decisive exploitation of the orchestra. But let
it be said, quite bluntly, that it is irritating to be told that Hubert Parry was
indifferent to orchestral functions. He was a convinced Wagnerite before any
other representative English composer—and he was that without the advocacy
of his great friend Dannreuther. … A great deal of loose critical scorn has been
directed at Parry’s scoring: as if he had never written the Symphonic Variations
or the introduction to Beyond these Voices there is Peace.8
In light of the promotion and rehabilitation of these works through performance

and recordings, the present author will focus on Voces Clamantium and Beyond
These Voices There Is Peace, the first and last of Parry’s deeply personal cantatas,
respectively. For whereas The Love That Casteth Out Fear and The Soul’s Ransom
have been admirably and thoroughly discussed elsewhere by others,9 and The Vision
of Life was addressed in the previous chapter, very little has been written about
Voces Clamantium and Beyond These Voices There Is Peace, which epitomize the
two polarities of Parry’s character and compositional styles.
Voces Clamantium: Soberly Constrained
Voces Clamantium mirrors Parry’s “Puritan” side through its biblical quotations
and the conservative manner in which it is composed. Parry extracted passages
from Isaiah and sequenced them as he desired, to which he appended ten lines of
his own as a final summary:
Voces Clamantium and Beyond These Voices There Is Peace 39
O man, look upward where the skies are clear

From Earth’s obscuring shadows free,
Look where thy hope lies,
If it be well with thee.
The spirit yearns aright,
The body drags her wings,
Yet follow thou the steadfast light
Nor doubt the inner voice that sings
Of truth and love and strong endeavour,
The soul’s aspiring faith that leadeth upwards ever.
These are grouped into six episodes, each with a Latin superscript, as
1. “Vox Clamantis in deserto” (“Cry aloud, spare not, lift up thy voice like a
trumpet”) for soprano (Isaiah xli);
2. “Adventus populi” (“The noise of a multitude in the mountains like as of a
great people”) for chorus (Isaiah xiii and xvii);
3. “Vox Prophetae” (“God looked for judgement, but behold oppression”) for
bass (Isaiah v);
4. “Vox populi” (“The Lord is a God of judgement”) for chorus (Isaiah xviii);
5. “Vox consolatoris” (“Behold, he sendeth one to bind up the broken-
hearted”) for soprano (Isaiah lxi, xxv, and xxvi); and
6. “Vox Dei” (“I will create a new heaven, and a new earth”) for chorus (Isaiah
lxv, xxxv and Parry’s lines).
The result is a text that contemplates the judgment and punishment of the wicked,
expressed by the bass, “Vox Prophetae,” and the consolation of the oppressed,
uttered by the soprano, “Vox consolatoris”; whereas the chorus depicts the voices of
humanity, “Vox populi,” and of God, “Vox Dei”.10
The musical structure reflects the design of the text and unfolds without cessation;
that is, the work is through-composed, while an orchestral motif representing “the
voices of them that cry” recurs in and between the individual episodes—either in
its initial form or fragmented and transformed, and with or without the chords that
precede it—to suffuse the tightly constructed musical discourse. The motif is divided
into three parts during the short introduction—providing the intervals of a fifth (x),
second (y), and fourth (z)—which Parry inventively explores in the vocal, choral,
and orchestral domains of each episode (Example 2.1).
Examples of this compositional technique may be seen in the brief “Vox
Clamantis in deserto,” where the soprano outlines the first part of the motif (x
and y), after which the orchestral music is structured on the interval of the second
(y); in “Adventus populi,” where the choral voices fill out the interval of the fifth
(x), moving stepwise to and through the second (y), while the orchestra continues
initially with material based on the second (y), though the fifth and fourth are present
also; and in “Vox Prophetae,” where the orchestral music uses the interval of a third,
Example 2.1 Voces Clamantium by Hubert Parry, introduction, orchestral motif

derived from the pitch content of the bass line preceding the motif (d–e–f), and the
fourth (z), while the melody of the bass suggests the fourth (z) plus the octave (the
interval that frames the fourth and the fifth), and the second (y). It is unnecessary to
discuss the entire work in this vein, for our précis is sufficient to show how Parry
manipulates and recombines his germinal material to develop Voces Clamantium.
We should add, however, that the work is goal-directed tonally in that it avoids or
evades the focal key of G major, which is only completely obtained or reached in the
concluding paragraphs to Parry’s words. Some of these ingredients may be viewed
in the motivic and tonal chart found in Table 2.1; but, naturally, a close analysis of
the score by any observer will reveal additional and richer associations.
Table 2.1 Voces Clamantium: summary motivic and tonal chart

[Shown below are some of the motivic and tonal elements. The former are indications
of initial appearances only (in original or variant form), as others can be identified in the
profusely layered texture; the latter are key indications for the beginnings of interludes,
episodes, and sections, for the tonal movement is quite fluid.]
Prelude (G): G with motif (x, y, z)—b: F#6

Vox Clamantis in deserto (soprano solo)
b (x, y, z) Cry aloud, spare not, lift up thy voice like a trumpet. (Isaiah lviii)
D (y) Keep silence before me, O islands;
And let the people renew their strength;
F (y) Let them come near, then let them speak; let them come near to
judgement. (Isaiah xli)
Interlude: a: E  (x, y)
Adventus populi (chorus)
D (x, y) The noise of a multitude in the mountains like as of a great people,
F (x, y, z) The noise of a tumult of the nations gathered together.
B@ They come from the uttermost parts of the heaven.
b@ Therefore shall all hands be feeble, and every heart of man shall melt,
and they shall be dismayed.
G@ (z) For the stars of heaven and the constellations therefore shall not give their
light: the sun shall be darkened in his going forth, and the moon shall not
cause her light to shine.
E@ (y) Ah! The uproar of many people, which roar like the roaring of the seas;
and the rushing of the nations, that rush like the rushing of mighty waters.
(Isaiah xiii and xvii)
Interlude: g: G¦½ (x, y, z)
Vox Prophetae (bass solo)

B (z) God looked for judgement, but behold oppression,
For righteousness, but behold a cry.
d (y, z) Woe unto them that join house to house, that lay field to field, till there be
no room.
a (y, z) Woe unto them that tarry late into the night till wine inflame them, and
harp and lute and pipe are in their feasts, but they regard not the work of
the Lord,
F (z) Neither have they considered the operations of his hands.
G (y, z) Woe unto them that draw iniquity with the cords of vanity, and sin as it
were with a cart rope.
A@ (y, z) Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil, which justify the
wicked for a reward, and take away the righteousness of the righteous
from him. /D/
C As the tongue of fire devoureth the stubble, as the dry grass sinketh down
in the flame, so their root shall be as rottenness, and their blossom shall
go up as the dust. (Isaiah v)
Interlude: d/F (y, z)
Vox populi (chorus)
F (z/x, y) The Lord is a God of Judgement; blessed are all they that wait for him.
(Isaiah xviii)
Interlude: F (z)
Vox consolatoris (soprano solo)
F (z) Behold, he sendeth one to bind up the broken-hearted, to comfort those
that mourn, and give them a garland for ashes; a garment of praise for the
spirit of heaviness.
C The Lord is a stronghold of the poor; a stronghold to the needy in his
distress; /a/
C A refuge from the storm; a shadow from the heat, when the blast of the
terrible ones is like a storm against the wall. /D/
B@ The light of the moon shall be as the light of the sun; the light of the sun
shall be even as the light of seven days, /D@–F/ in that day when the Lord
bindeth up the hurt of his people, and healeth the stroke of their wound.
/F/ (Isaiah lxi, xxv, xxvi)
Interlude: d: A (x, y, z)
Vox Dei (chorus)
G, B@ (y) I will create a new heaven, and a new earth; /B@7/ and the voice of
G (x) weeping shall be heard therein no more, nor the voice of crying.
C But an highway shall be there, and it shall be called the way of holiness.
E@ (y, z) And the redeemed shall walk there, /E@/ and everlasting joy shall be upon
their heads, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away. (Isaiah lxv, xxxv)
Interlude (G): D¦½ (x, y, z)
G (z) O man, look upward where the skies
Are clear, from earth’s dark shadows free,
Look where thy hope lies,
If it be well with thee.
The spirit yearns aright,

The body drags her wings,
Yet follow thou the steadfast light
Nor doubt the inner voice that sings
Of truth and love and strong endeavour,
The soul’s aspiring faith that leadeth upwards ever. (y, z)
/E@/ The soul’s aspiring faith that leadeth upwards ever. /G/ (y, z)
The sobriety of the compositional elements may be a reflection of the work’s

meaning and purpose, for it is less adventurous than any of Parry’s last choral essays;
nevertheless, the musical discourse features several impressive moments. The solo
for bass, “Vox Prophetae” (“God looked for judgement, but behold oppression”),
with its textual lines punctuated by rapid tonal shifts (for example, those at
rehearsal letter K, from B through A@, A, B, C#, and d, in merely sixteen measures),
illustrates the power of melodic declamation for which Parry was criticized or
praised. The expressive solo (in F major) for soprano, “Vox consolatoris” (“Behold,
he sendeth one to bind up the broken-hearted”), with its slower harmonic pace
and lovely deflection to D@ (at rehearsal letter W), demonstrates the meditative
intimacy at which Parry excelled. The choruses or portions of them, “Adventus
populi” and “Vox Dei,” show the efficacious choral technique for which Parry was
celebrated; for example, the imitative posture of “Adventus populi” (“The noise of
a multitude”), as well as the overlapping phrases of “And the voice of weeping,”
together with the bracing fugue to “And everlasting joy shall be upon their heads,”
and the sweeping lines, unison at first, of “O man, look upward where the skies are
clear,” all components of “Vox Dei.” Notwithstanding these passages, the bathetic
reiterations of “Ah” (at G)—their parallel (at FF) are more affective—dissipate
the energy and tension that are so integral to Parry’s scores. This aside, Voces
Clamantium had its supporters who prevented its neglect and, considered on its
own terms, the work is not unappealing.
The autograph manuscripts, of which there are two (no drafts or sketches
are extant), are fascinating and instructive. Deposited in the Bodleian Library as
Music.c.119 is a bound volume containing: c (fols 71–109) 155, the vocal score
used by the printers, almost complete;11 and deposited in the Royal College of
Music Library as RCM MS No. 4214 is a bound volume, in boards (light brown)
with a dark brown spine (of cloth), containing the full score of 75 pages.
Written in black ink on 14-stave manuscript paper, the former displays many
of the characteristics common to the other autograph vocal scores. The calligraphy
is big and prominent—as if Parry could scarcely write quickly enough to get it
down on paper—and, therefore, the manuscript is not pristine in appearance.
Parry used the recto side only, reserving the verso for annotations, emendations,
and notations as, for example, those on 71v (a textual attribution: Isaiah 41), 80v
(his name and London address; in fact, the manuscript has been folded in half as
if it had been mailed to the printer), 83v (another textual attribution: Isaiah V),
106v (a musical passage crossed out), and 107v (an inscription of three notes).
Annotations in pencil, blue and red pencil (adding dynamics, missing accidentals,
rehearsal letters, and so forth) are assumed to be those of the editor preparing the
score for publication, with whom the composer would have consulted frequently.
Parry indicated the key signature only at the beginning of an episode, section, or
solo, and thereafter pages of manuscript simply have no key signatures (sometimes
clefs are treated in the same fashion).
Emendations to the autograph begin to occur at the bottom of fol. 81, where
there is a four-measure paste-over (from letter H, “uproar of many peoples”), after
which eight measures are missing (perhaps a folio was removed, even though
the leaves have been numbered consecutively by the Bodleian Library staff). The
last two measures at the bottom of fol. 83 have been conflated to one measure in
the published vocal score (see the bottom of p. 13, first measure, at the Maestoso
come prima). At the bottom of fol. 84, the bass solo discontinues and, thus, the
bulk of the aria is missing from letter L in the published score (see p. 14, “But
behold a cry,” and following); perhaps this portion was not returned by the
printer or became detached from the manuscript material collected by Finzi for
donation to the Bodleian Library or from the supplementary material later found at
Parry’s London address by Eve Barsham and Christopher Finzi.12 The manuscript
continues on fol. 84 with the choral music, “Blessed are all,” featured at the top of
page 19, last two measures, in the published score.
This section leads to the soprano solo, “Behold, he sendeth one to bind up
the broken-hearted,” which to Finzi was a good example of biblical prose set in
an entirely un-declamatory style.13 Interestingly, the autograph does not include
its introduction: that is, in the published vocal score, page 20, the passage after
measure three of the first system to the last measure of the second system.
Beyond this omission, a number of minute differences are noticeable between the
autograph and the published vocal score, in which Parry endeavored to improve
the contours of the melody (pitch and rhythm), the syllabication of the words, and
the preservation of melodic climax. Either Parry did not transfer the amendments
from the full score to the autograph vocal score or he made them at the proof stage.
On the bottom of page 21, second measure, the a1 of the vocal score was changed
from an e1 in the autograph. On the top of page 22, second measure of the former,
there is no passing tone, d2, between the c2 and e2 in the latter; similarly, in the third
measure of the same system, the a1 on the fourth beat is an e2 in the autograph. In
the second system, measure three, the e2s on the first beat of the former are a2s in
the latter; here, the alteration reinforces the melodic climax of two measures later.
In the third system, measure 2, the b$1–c2–d2–e2 melodic segment (to an eighth,
eighth, eighth, quarter rhythm) in the vocal score is c2–d2–e2 (the b$ is not present
and the rhythm consists of an eighth and two quarters) in the autograph. On page
23, first system, third measure of the former, the d2 is an e@2 in the latter. In the third
system, last measure, the g2 and f2 in the vocal score are f2 and e2 in the autograph.
In the fourth system, second measure, the succession of pitches has been changed
to e1–d1–g1–e2 in the former from a1–g1–b@1–d2 in the latter. The last six measures
of the postlude received a few minor alternations, as well. In the second system,
last measure, on the fourth beat, the g1 of the former is an f1 in the autograph
(which alters the succession of pitches in the next measure).
At the end of the choral fugue, “And everlasting joy shall be,” two measures
were changed entirely in the autograph (fol. 101, ten measures after letter EE) to
culminate on the thrilling climax, the A@s (on “head”), of the measure immediately
following them (p. 36, twelve measures after letter EE), while the subsequent
interlude gained necessary accidentals in the vocal score. At letter FF in the vocal
score, “And sorrow and sighing shall flee,” the minor-seventh leap in the soprano
is a minor-third leap in the autograph (fol. 102), where a 6-stave manuscript
fragment (for chorus and piano) has been pasted onto it. At the beginning of
Parry’s text, “O man, look upward where the skies are clear,” the divisi parts in the
bass (vocal score, page 38) are not included in the autograph. In the vocal score at
page 41, second system, measure 3, the alto line was changed to g#1–a1–b1–g#1–a1
from g#1–a1–b1–e1–e1 of the autograph (fol. 107). The cadential progression at two
measures before letter KK in the autograph (fol. 108) was changed to that in the
vocal score (see page 42), while the final choral passage, beginning at “The soul’s
aspiring faith,” was rewritten slightly; that is, the soprano part was divided and
given higher notes, to produce an ending of greater grandeur (fol. 109).
Parry’s idiosyncratic scoring is exhibited in the full score of Voces Clamantium,
which is written on 26-stave manuscript paper (H. Lard-Esnault, ed. Bellamy) (c.
10″ × 14″), recto/verso, in (faded or fading) black ink with emendations in red ink,
pencil and blue pencil (by Parry and others); for example, articulation markings,
crescendi and decrescendi indications, needed accidentals, notes and rests added
to various parts, added instrumental passages at the bottom of pages, and so on.
The autograph is legible but not pretty and illustrates the labor, long and tedious,
exerted by Parry to refine and inscribe his music as his imagination conceived it.
However, this was a Novello hire score, so it exhibits the abuses of rental music;
for example, there are annotations by a conductor or conductors to cue the entry
of the basses of the chorus; to instruct the chorus to stand or sit (“Chorus Rises,”
“Chorus Sits”); and to help a conductor with other aids in performance. Each page
is paginated successively. The music begins on page 1 (a recto); page 2 is an
overleaf of page 1. In common with the other autographs, key signatures and clefs
appear at the commencement of episodes, sections, and solos; thereafter, pages

of manuscript do not carry them. Finally, throughout the manuscript may be seen
the annotation “C. Hubert H. Parry / 17 Kensington Square / London W”, which
may imply that Parry worked on this autograph at his London home, rather than
at Knight’s Croft, Rustington or Highnam Court. There, during the late evening
hours or the odd moment, one can imagine the composer dwelling with intense
and loving concentration on every detail of his work and brooding on its deep
spiritual meaning.
Beyond These Voices There Is Peace: Profusely Extravagant
Much occurred in Parry’s life during the period from the completion of Voces
Clamantium to the beginning of Beyond These Voices There Is Peace. His
unremitting activities, travels, and time alone at his London home left him
increasingly exhausted, sick, depressed, and lonely. Acutely aware of his sixty
years of age, troubled by his mental and physical condition, and in the wake of The
Vision of Life, which had carried his philosophical testament, he decided to pen
yet another ethical cantata. Under the circumstances, perhaps the music he wrote,
which continues the compositional ideas of the previous ethical works though
greatly amplified, and the words he chose for his text, held deep meaning to him.
For Beyond These Voices There Is Peace is an example of Parry’s “Wagnerian”
side, with its enlarged harmonic syntax and orchestral posture, and its message is
one of an all-encompassing peace based on spiritual well-being as opposed to a
life of material consumption.
The text consists of lines from Ecclesiastes 1 (3–9), 2 (1–8, 10–11), 3 (1–8,
14–15), 11 (7–8, 10) and 12 (2–7), and Isaiah 55 (1–2, 7, 12–13), 40 (12–14, 17,
21–2, 28–30) and 26 (3), which Parry pruned carefully; for instance, he deleted
(interestingly) verse 9 of Ecclesiastes Chapter 2: “So I was great, and increased
more than all that were before me in Jerusalem: also my wisdom remained with
me.” The lines are grouped as follows:
1. “What profit hath man of all his labour?” for chorus (Ecclesiastes 1);
2. “I said in mine heart, Go to now” for bass (Ecclesiastes 2);
3. “To everything there is a season” for chorus (Ecclesiastes 3);
4. “Truly the light is sweet” for bass (Ecclesiastes 11 and 12);
5. “Ho! Every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters” for soprano (Isaiah 55);
6. “Who hath measured the waters in the hollow of his hand” for chorus
(Isaiah 40); and
7. “He giveth power to the faint” with “Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace,”
the latter titled “The Clue” by Parry, for soprano and chorus (Isaiah 40
and 26).14
The lines are set for chorus and soloists in episodes linked by a framework of
orchestral commentary and, hence, the form is a through-composed construction.
Unlike Voces Clamantium, the work is omnitonic—that is, ultra-chromatic and
possessing many levels of ambiguity—and Parry utilizes five varied motifs
to provide momentum, which he summarized in a letter of 14 August 1908 to
Frederick George Edwards,15 editor of the Musical Times 1897–1909 (Figure 2.1
and Chapter 2 Appendix). Four are heard in the orchestral introduction; that is,
motifs a, b, c, and d of “bitterness and discontent,” “all encompassing peace,”
“weariness,” and “an everlasting sign,” respectively (Example 2.2); the fifth, motif
e of “mundane joyousness,” is heard later. These are recapitulated in various guises
in both the individual episodes and the intervening transitions of the work, which
pivots (on p. 43) from the lines of Ecclesiastes for bass and chorus to those of
Isaiah for soprano and chorus (Table 2.2). For example, motif b achieves its fullest
efflorescence at the conclusion of “Whatsoever God doeth, it shall be forever”
(p. 38) and, together with motif d, receives its ultimate reference in the final
reflection of “The Clue” (“Thou shalt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is
stayed on Thee”). The most striking episodes are the serene third, “To everything
there is a season,” with its neo-baroque counterpoint—Finzi found it so appealing
that he attempted to have it published separately—and the majestic sixth, “Who
hath measured the waters,” with its enharmonic shifts from A@ to A (at rehearsal
number 38 passim) and from D to A (at 40), and tonal fluidity or instability, a trait
of the work overall. Both feature significant orchestral interpolations, especially
the former (at pp. 33 and 35), which underline the increased instrumental role
in the composition. This is true of the first episode, “What profit hath man of
all his labour,” which is less successful because of its discursive quality, also a
characteristic of the solo episodes. Lastly, Beyond These Voices There Is Peace is
pervaded by rapid shifts in mood, caused by the incongruous juxtaposition of the
contrasting motifs, which give it a lacerating and manic quality.
Figure 2.1 Letter to F.G. Edwards containing Parry’s Outline of Beyond These
Voices There is Peace, GB-Lbl Add. MS. 41570, fol. 21r
Example 2.2 Beyond These Voices There is Peace by Hubert Parry, motifs a, b, c,
and d (vocal score; Novello, 1908), pp. 1–2
Example 2.2 Concluded

Table 2.2 Beyond These Voices There Is Peace: summary motivic and tonal
chart
[Shown below are some of the motivic and tonal elements. The former are indications
of obvious appearances; the latter are key indications for the beginnings of interludes,
episodes, and sections—the tonality is omnitonic.]
Introduction (a, b, a, b, a, c, d, b, a)
Chorus
f—c (a) What profit hath man of all his labour wherein he laboureth under the
sun?
c—F (c′) One generation goeth, and another generation cometh; and the earth
abideth for ever.
F—A The sun also riseth, the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place
where he ariseth.
A— The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it
turneth about continually, and the wind returneth again to its circuits.
d—f All the rivers run into the sea, yet the sea is not full; (a) unto the
place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again. (a)
f—(c) All things are full of weariness; the eye is not satisfied with seeing,
nor the ear filled with hearing.
A@—F That which hath been is that which shall be, and that which hath
been done is that which shall be done; and there is no new thing
under the sun.
Interlude (a, b′)
Bass solo
A— I said in mine heart, Go to now, I will prove thee with mirth; /E/ I
said of laughter: It is mad, and of mirth, what doeth it?
I sought in mine heart how I might cheer my flesh with wine, mine
heart yet guiding me with wisdom, and how to lay hold on folly,
till I might see what it was good for the sons of men that they
should do under heaven all the days of their life.
E—(e) I made me great works; I builded me houses; I planted me
vineyards; I made me gardens and orchards; I made me pools of
water, to water therefrom the wood that bringeth forth trees;
B/b—A I got me servants and maidens, I gathered me silver and gold. And
whatsoever mine eyes desired I kept not from them; I withheld not
my heart from any joy. (e)
d—a Then I looked on all the works my hands had wrought, (b) and
on the labours that I had laboured to do; (a) And, behold, all was
vanity, vanity and vexation of spirit, and there was no profit under
the sun.
Interlude (a′)
Chorus
C—C To everything there is a season, a time to every purpose under the
baroque heaven;
counterpoint A time to be born, a time to die;

A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
A time to weep, a time to laugh, a time to mourn, and a time to
dance;
A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to seek, and a time to lose;
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate;
A time for war, a time for peace.
E@—C Whatsoever God doeth, it shall be for ever.
God hath done it that men should fear before Him.
That which is hath been already; that which is to be hath already
been; God seeketh again that which is passed away.
Interlude /C/ (b)
Bass solo
C— Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is to behold the
sun. /E/
Yea, if a man live many years, let him rejoice in them all;
Let him remember the days of darkness, for they shall be many.
/C/
C— Therefore remove sorrow from thy heart, and put away evil from
thy flesh; Or ever the sun, and the light, and the moon, and the
stars be darkened, /E/
E— In that day when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the
strong men shall bow themselves, and the doors be shut in the
street;
F— They shall be afraid of that which is from on high, and terrors
shall be in the way;
E— Because man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about
the streets; /E/
Or ever the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel be
broken at the cistern. /f#/
The dust shall return to earth as it was, and the spirit to God Who
gave it. /E/
Interlude (a, b)
Pivot
Soprano solo
F— Ho! Every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters.
Come ye, buy and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk, without
money and without price. /f/ (a′)
Wherefore do ye spend money for that which is not bread? and
your labour for that which satisfieth not? (a′)
D@— Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his
thoughts; and let him return unto the Lord, and He will abundantly
pardon. /C/ (b)
F— And ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace;
The mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into
singing, (b) and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands.
B— Instead of the thorn shall come up the fir tree; instead of the briar
shall come up the myrtle tree;
B— It shall be for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off. /G@/ (b)
(Brief) interlude (d)
Chorus
F— Who hath measured the waters in the hollow of His hand, and
meted out the heavens with the span, and comprehended the dust
of the earth in a measure, and weighed the mountains in scales,
and the hills in a balance? (d)
a—C Who hath directed the Spirit of the Lord; or, being His counselor,
hath taught Him?
With whom took He counsel, and who instructed Him, and taught
Him in the path of judgement, and showed Him the way of
understanding? /C/ (d)
A@— All the nations are as nothing before Him. They are counted to
Him as less than nothing and vanity. /E/
E— To whom will ye liken God? Or what likeness will ye compare
unto Him? /D@/ (b)
D@— Have ye not known? Have ye not heard? Hath it not been told you
from the beginning? Have ye not understood from the foundations
of the earth? /D@/ (d)
A— It is He that sitteth upon the circle of the earth; that stretcheth out
the heavens as a curtain, and spreadeth them out as a tent to dwell
in; /A/
A— Hast thou not known? hast thou not heard?
D@— The everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth fainteth
not, neither is weary, there is no searching of His understanding.
/F/
(Brief) interlude (b)
Soprano solo and chorus
F He giveth power to the faint; and to him that hath no might He
Brief increaseth strength. (b)
counterpoint
Even the youths shall be faint and weary,
E@—
But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they
shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be
weary, they shall walk and not faint./F/
[The Clue.] (d)
F— Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on

Thee. (b) … in perfect peace
The autograph manuscripts of Beyond These Voices There Is Peace, of which

there are two (plus drafts), are much like those of Voces Clamantium. Deposited
in the Bodleian Library as Music.c.120 is a bound volume containing: b (fols
78–158) 172, part of a vocal score used by printers (and drafts);16 and deposited in
the Royal College of Music Library as RCM MS No. 4202 is a bound volume, in
boards (light brown) with a dark brown spine (of cloth), containing the full score
of 135 pages.
Written in black ink on 14-stave manuscript paper, the former looks very much
like the other autograph vocal scores. The calligraphy is very bold and, therefore, the
manuscript has a rather untidy appearance. Annotations (clarification of passages,
addition of rehearsal numbers, and so on) are in pencil and blue/red pencil. Parry
indicates the key signature only at the beginning of an episode, section, or solo and
thereafter there may be no indication for several pages; clefs are treated similarly;
and the composer uses only the recto sides of the folios. Many of the annotations are
presumed to be in the hand of the printer preparing the score for publication, though
Parry would have been consulted by him as needed.
A large portion of the autograph is omitted at the end of fol. 86 (fols 87–89 are blank)
to fol. 90, which in the published vocal score corresponds to page 10, first system, third
measure to page 28, first system, first measure (eight measures before rehearsal number
21). Again, one can speculate that the printer did not return the material to Parry or
that it went missing when the autograph was stored at the composer’s London home.
A two-measure passage (at p. 33, second system) has been pasted onto fol. 95 (it is a
3-stave fragment, of which the bottom two staves are used for the piano part). Another
large portion of the autograph is omitted at the end of fol. 96, which in the published
vocal score corresponds to page 34, third system, second measure to page 41, fourth
system, last measure (nine measures after rehearsal number 29). Without the aid of the
published vocal score or the autograph full score, it would be impossible to assess the
shape and proportions of the episodes and of the work in its entirety.
Folio 98 was a revision, apparently, of the bass solo (pick-up to three measures
before rehearsal number 30), because Parry writes at the top of the folio: Continuation
of “Beyond these voices there is peace” and he indicates further that he has forgotten
his page sequence, which solves the puzzle of the incorrect rehearsal numbers in the
published vocal score (note that after rehearsal number 31 there is 30 [sic] and then
32). The seven-measure passage for piano at rehearsal number 31 is a 3-stave fragment
pasted onto the top of fol. 100.
Another small portion of the autograph is omitted at the end of fol. 106, which
corresponds in the published vocal score to page 49, first system, third measure to page
50, second system, first measure (rehearsal number 35). There appear to have been no
attempts to replace the missing passages by the editor or the composer, which is rather
unusual inasmuch as Parry, by this date, was well aware that posterity might attach
some value to his autograph manuscripts.
It is most unfortunate that the subsequent sketches/drafts are illegible and incomplete,
for these would have permitted us to observe the alterations and improvements—of note
values, rhythmic patterns, harmonies, passage work, and scoring—that most certainly
would have occurred from the initial concept to the first sketches, from the rough drafts
to the draft proper, and on through the autograph vocal score.
Parry’s instrumentation and orchestration may be seen in the full score of Beyond
These Voices There Is Peace, which is written on 26-stave manuscript paper (H. Lard-
Esnault, ed. Bellamy) (c. 10″ × 14″), recto/verso, in (faded or fading) black ink with
emendations in red ink, pencil and blue pencil (by Parry and others); for example,
articulation markings, needed accidentals, notes and rests added to various parts, added
instrumental passages in their designated places in the score and at the bottom of pages
(such as Corno Inglese, Bass Clarinet, and Contra Fagotto), and so forth. It is obvious
that Parry went to infinite trouble to improve to his satisfaction the balance, texture,
and voicing, as well as the smallest details, of the orchestration. However, this, too,
was a Novello hire score, so it exhibits the abuses of rental music; for example, there
are annotations (visual aids) by a conductor or conductors to cue various parts and, in
other ways, to help a conductor in performance. Each page is paginated successively.
The music begins on page 1 (a recto); page 2 is an overleaf of page 1. In common with
the other scores, key signatures and clefs appear at the commencement of episodes,
sections, and solos; thereafter, pages of manuscript do not carry them. The instrumental
disposition/score layout is as follows: Flutes / Oboes / Clarinet in B@ / Bassoons / Horns
in F / Trumpets / Trombones / Bass and Tuba / Timpani / Violin I / Violin II / Viola /
Solo / Chorus / Cello / Bass / [then added parts] Corno Inglese / Bass Clarinet / Contra
Fagotti / Organ. As with the earlier full score, this autograph may have been produced
at Parry’s Kensington home, for throughout the manuscript may be seen: “C. Hubert H.
Parry / 17 Kensington Square / London W”.
Harbingers of Change
Voces Clamantium and Beyond These Voices There Is Peace epitomize the “two
streams” in Parry, the former soberly constrained, the latter profusely extravagant.
Voces Clamantium had its advocates in Walford Davies et alia, who may have
been attracted to the humanist philosophy or metaphysical concerns that feature in
all of Parry’s late choral works, whereas Beyond These Voices There Is Peace, or
portions of it, was preferred by Finzi, Vaughan Williams, Howells, and Whittaker,
who may have seen the work as an adumbration of innovation, a precursor of future
explorations in choral-orchestral writing. That it was Parry’s favorite among his
ethical choral-orchestral works17 may be an indication of the importance he gave to
the text he chose and the music he composed during a period of mental and physical
decline. The autographs demonstrate that Parry was a pragmatic composer who
did not hesitate to revise his works before or after publication in order to improve
them and, thus, it is not unusual to find these manuscripts subjected to emendation
of all kinds. The aural experience provided by the revivals of some of the works
complemented the scholarship that contextualized them. But repeated hearings with
orchestra of all the ethical cantatas should be commonly observed, for they are part
of the imperishable heritage of England. Even if they are skillful rather than magical
and lack the incandescence of the works of Parry’s inheritors, they were harbingers
of change and served a catalytic purpose. “The choral tradition had always been the
heart of English music, and was therefore the mostly likely breeding-ground for the
inevitable revolution.” Parry’s accomplishment “was in reality a reformation; the
substance of the renaissance” he sought was to follow him.18
Chapter 2 Appendix: A Transcription of Parry’s Outline of Beyond These

Voices There Is Peace (fols 21r–22v]
Note: Here Parry’s penmanship is small and rather difficult to read; brackets {}
indicate insertions by the present author.
“Beyond these voices there is peace.”

The Introduction summarizes in anticipation. The opening bars are the “motive”
of bitterness and discontent with the never ceasing disappointment begotten of the
fruitlessness of the search after mere worldly pleasures. The answer anticipating
(with slight intentional variations) the motive {?} of “all encompassing peace”
(bars 5 to 10) {theme written in the bass clef: b/g#, f#, e/g#, b, e, g#, b/c#, b, g#/g#}.
At rehearsal number 2 the theme of “all things are full of weariness” in the first
chorus comes in and the answer to that (in the Trombones) is the first few bars of the
motive of the “Everlasting Life” {sic} in the last Chorus (10th bar of p. 2), which
in its time leads to a reference, pianissimo, to the “motive” of the “all embracing
Peace”, which here is left floating in the higher spheres, when the discontent of
the human voices reasserts {?} its self, leading to the first Chorus, – which gives
the general expression of the vanity and transitoriness of mens {sic} mundane
desires in successive episodes which emphasize human futility by contrast with
eternal and changeless things, culminating in the theme of the discontent and the
bitter ejaculations flung from voice to voice “All things are full of weariness” etc.
– “That which has been is that which shall be, and there is no new thing under the
sun”. Man the individual (represented by the Bass solo) takes up this parable – “I
said {fol. 21v} in mine heart, go to now I will prove thee with mirth” etc trying to
beguile himself with the recapitulation of the pleasant things of the world which
he has experienced. His attempt at mundane joyousness and self satisfaction being
expressed in the theme at rehearsal letter 15. But before he is half way through
with it (p. 23 animando) the sense of the fruitlessness of it all grips him and he
goes on in {sorrowing?} rage vainly trying to cajole himself with the motive of
mundane joy (repeated at rehearsal letter 17). But his efforts are fruitless. The
motive of bitterness comes back (p 25 12 succeeding bars), and he comes to the
bitter confession [Ecc. 2.11] “All is vanity and vexation {?} of spirit” and there
is no profit under the sun”. Then the Chorus comes in with a commentary [Ecc.
3.1] “To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven”.
The tune given to these words in the voices {theme quoted: dedefgedc, etc} being
anticipated and amplified by the massed strings in the introductory part, and the
first part of the Chorus being a kind of dialogue {fol. 22r} between the various
voices, accompanied and held together by the ceaseless undercurrent of the
motive so identified with the sentiment of the words in constant variation. After
the culmination [–] the words [Ecc. 3.8] “a time for war and a time for peace,”
the Chorus has a second half expressing the sense of eternity, as the fulfilment and
complement of the ideas on [Ecc. 3.8] “a time for every purpose under heaven”
in the first part [Ecc.3.14] “Whatsoever God doeth it shall be forever”, and the
ideas which follow it. (p. 23 et seq), and this passes with the theme of the “all
embracing peace” in its final form, and spreading much wider than before. Then
the individual [personal] man begins once more to try to find comfort in the ideas
[Ecc.11.7] “Truly the light is sweet and a pleasant thing it is to behold the sun” but
the sequel is more final even than in the first solo for the thought of [Ecc.11.8] “the
days of darkness” come to him and he remembers that the end of it all will be that
[Ecc.12.5] “man goeth to his long home and the mourners go about the streets” (p.
42) culminating in the thought that [Ecc.12.7] “The dust shall return to earth as it
was” etc. (p. 43). The motive of the bitterness comes again, answered by that of
the all embracing peace (rehearsal letter 28 {sic}) here in its severest form. The
earthly voices cease and the Soprano solo calls [Isaiah 55.1] “to everyone that
thirsteth” etc. {fol. 22v} figuratively presenting the reminder that beyond these
earthy voices there is the solution of all discontents. The music contains references
to the motive of discontent (30) and the motive of Peace (accompaniment 31),
culminating with the words [Isaiah 5.13] “It shall be for an everlasting sign”,
which makes the transition to the motive of “the Everlasting sign” rehearsal letter
34. The Chorus in a series of reflective episodes parallel to the first Chorus but
expressing the immensity of the Eternal in answer to the futility of the mundane
desires. The motive of the “Everlasting sign” comes again and again to emphasize
and unify the {conception?}. When the words [Isaiah 40.18] “To whom will ye
liken God and what likeness will ye compare unto Him” the answer comes in the
figurative reference to the motive of the “all encompassing peace” (p. 36 {sic} last
3 bars) and that theme combined and alternated with that of “the Everlasting sign”
continues to pervade the music till the reflective portion ends and passes into the
active (yet figurative) expression of joyousness “But they that wait upon the Lord
shall renew their strength{”} (p. 65). This after passing through several phases
culminates in the passage [Isaiah 40.31] “They shall mount up with wings” etc (p.
73 et seq.) and finally passes to the restatement of the theme of “the Everlasting
sign” (p. 75 bottom line Tempo Imo). This time the solo soprano and Chorus join
in softly with the final reflection which is the root of the whole matter [Isaiah 26.3]
“Thou shalt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on this” accompanied
by a last reference to the theme of “the everlasting peace”.
Notes
1 Stephen Banfield, Gerald Finzi: An English Composer (London, 1997), p. 401.

2 H.C. Colles, Walford Davies (London, 1942), p. 56.
3 Taken from the LP sleeve notes (Surrey: Antiphon Records, 1981). These works
and many others were given by the St. Michael’s Singers, founded in 1919 by
Darke, of St. Michael’s Cornhill. Vaughan Williams was their President until his
death in 1958. First performances or London premieres by the Singers included
Parry’s The Vision of Life (mentioned above), Britten’s Te Deum, Harris’s Michael
Angelo’s Confession of Faith, Lambert’s Rio Grande, Kodály’s Missa Brevis,
Dyson’s Hierusalem, Vaughan Williams’s A Vision of Aeroplanes, and Howells’s

An English Mass. Thalben-Ball remembers performances at the Temple Church
attended by Parry.
4 Lewis Foreman (ed.), Music in England 1885–1920 as Recounted in Hazell’s Annual
(London, 1994), pp. 2–7. According to the author, and at the time of publication,
eighteen works had been revived since the Second World War.
5 Ibid. and Bernard Benoliel, Parry before Jerusalem: Studies of His Life and Music
(Aldershot, 1997).
6 Jeremy Dibble, C. Hubert H. Parry: His Life and Music (Oxford, 1992), p. 425.
7 Banfield, p. 401.
8 In Christopher Palmer, Herbert Howells (London, 1992), p. 282.
9 In addition to Benoliel and Dibble, see Nigel Burton, “Oratorios and Cantatas,”
in Nicholas Temperley (ed.), The Romantic Age 1800–1914, vol. 5 of The Athlone
History of Music in Britain (London, 1981); A.E.F. Dickinson, “The Neglected
Parry,” Musical Times (April 1949), pp. 108–11; and R.O. Morris, “Hubert Parry,”
Music and Letters (March 1920), pp. 94–103.
10 The reader is referred to the vocal score. Here, the information and musical examples
are taken from the Bodleian Library copy: Parry, Hubert, Voces Clamantium, for
soli, chorus, and orchestra; vocal score (London: Novello and Company, Limited,
1903) [plate number: 11736], (ii) + 44 pp. Bodleian Library Mus.51d.19(5). The
title page reads as follows: “Novello’s Original Octavo Edition. / Composed For
The Hereford Musical Festival, 1903. / Voces Clamantium / (The Voices of Them
That Cry) / Motet / For / Soli, Chorus, and Orchestra / By / C. Hubert H. Parry. /
[etc.].”
11 This autograph is bound together with other manuscripts, the complete contents of
which may be listed as follows: a (fols 1–50). A Song of Darkness and Light, vocal
score used by printers, almost complete; drafts; b (fols 51–70) 149. Ode to Music,
part of vocal score used by printers; drafts; c (fols 71–109) 155. Voces Clamantium,
vocal score used by printers, almost complete; d (fols 111–174) 163. The Pied
Piper, part of vocal score used by printers, and drafts. 172 leaves.
12 Eve Barsham, “Parry’s Manuscripts: A Rediscovery,” Musical Times (February
1960), pp. 86–7.
13 See the (three) Crees Lectures on “The Composer’s Use of Words” by Finzi at the
Royal College of Music, summer term 1955; first lecture, p. 14.
14 Information and musical examples are referenced from: Hubert Parry, Beyond These
Voices There Is Peace; vocal score (Novello, 1908) [plate number: 12824]; Bodleian
Library Mus.51d.19(1). (ii) + 76 pp. The title page reads as follows: “Novello’s
Original Octavo Edition. / Composed For The Worcester Musical Festival, 1908. /
Beyond These Voices There Is Peace / Motet / For / Soprano And Bass Soli, Chorus
And Orchestra / By / C. Hubert H. Parry. / Price Two Shillings And Sixpence. /
London: Novello And Company, Limited. / New York: The H.W. Gray Co., Sole
Agents For The U.S.A. / Copyright, 1908, by Novello and Company, Limited. /
[etc.].” Subsequently, the complete text appears in two columns.
15 Add. MS. 41570–41574. Papers of Frederick George Edwards. Folios. 19r–20v.
Parry’s summary of Beyond These Voices There Is Peace may be found on fols
21r–22v. Edwards had asked Parry for an analysis of the work and Parry wrote:
“My dear Edwards I cannot of course supply you with an actual analysis of ‘Beyond
these voices there is peace’ to be printed in the Musical Times but I hope a general
outline of the scheme which I send herewith will be a help to whoever [?] you
entrust with the duty of putting it into shape. I hope you will find someone capable
of tackling the job—and in any case please don’t let me appear as having supplied
anything of the nature of an appreciation! The position of explaining to the public
what one means is very distasteful! However I’ve done the best I could to give [?]
you the groundwork of what I mean by it. I have had to squeeze it on to one sheet as
it’s the only sheet I can find. I hope to be at Knights Croft Rustington [?] by Monday
if there’s anything more you want. Yours most sincerely C. Hubert H. Parry[.]”
16 This autograph is bound together with other manuscripts: a (fols 1–77) 165. The
Soul’s Ransom, vocal score used by printers, almost complete; drafts; b (fols 78–
158) 172. Beyond These Voices, part of vocal score used by printers; and drafts; c
(fols 159–79) 173. Eton Memorial Ode, part of vocal score used by printer; drafts
(written in: “for item d (fols 180–4) see next page”). 186 leaves.
17 Dibble, p. 425.
18 Burton, p. 237.
Chapter 3
Two Versions of The Three Holy Children
by Charles Stanford: Context, Design, and
Extant Scores
The impression he made on me was, primarily, one of brilliance. His personality

had a sort of splendour, as if the hero of a fairy-tale, incredibly gifted, miraculously
omniscient, had strolled unconcernedly into a world of ordinary mortals. Until I
got used to it his very appearance awed me: his tall, loose figure, his slow walk
with its short steps, his fair head rising from the collar of his fur coat, his somewhat
unshapely nose, which one had to admit as a small flaw in his majesty. His speech
added to the wonder he created in me: his Irish brogue grafted on to a Cambridge
idiom, his calm, assured, and certain manner of utterance seemed to me, accustomed
to the vigour of provincial dialectics, so masterly, so ideal! Those were indeed his
great days. Gifted, confident, productive, already important in his sphere, gradually
winning favour, he seemed to have the world at his feet. Evidently high in the
counsels of the College, admired by the Director, esteemed by his pupils, he was a
force such as this generation can hardly realise. (S.P. Waddington)1
Stanford in the Literature
In light of the evidence of Stanford’s early popularity and success, it is difficult

to accept the decline in interest in both the man and his music that occurred after
his death. With the exception of vivid personal memories, like the one above
of Stanford in 1883, examinations in general works or period studies,2 or a few
articles that repeat each other, reiterate the same facts, and center on Stanford’s
official tasks and some of his output,3 substantial work on the composer ceased
as fashions changed and Victorian and Edwardian British music became passé.
After many years, with the resurgence of research on the composers of the English
Musical Renaissance, scholars began to publish detailed biographies of (to name
a few) Hubert Parry, Gerald Finzi, and Edmund Rubbra that are all-encompassing
because they draw heavily on autobiographical writings. For example, in
C. Hubert H. Parry: His Life and Music, Jeremy Dibble cited frequently from the
personal diaries that Parry kept for fifty-four years; in Gerald Finzi: An English
Composer, Stephen Banfield used Finzi’s extensive correspondence of over 3,000
letters; in The Music of Edmund Rubbra, Ralph Scott Grover reproduced Rubbra’s
autobiographical essay about his childhood and adolescence and included
the transcriptions of three taped interviews made during the summer of 1980.4
But Stanford was not investigated, undoubtedly because the composer did not
keep a journal and most of the day-to-day correspondence was discarded. His
autobiographical Pages from an Unwritten Diary (1914)5 “was skilfully selective
in chronicling those events in his life he wanted known, and deftly evasive of
others associated with his more volatile character.”6 Harry Plunket Greene
eschewed historical sequence in his biography of Stanford (1935),7 because of the
paucity of sufficient documentary material, and, furthermore, his account of the
composer’s life was biased due to his friendship with him.
As a result, Stanford’s biography remained fragmentary and incomplete until the
publication of important studies by Jeremy Dibble and Paul Rodmell.8 Both of the
narratives of Dibble and Rodmell commence with the opening sentences from Pages
from an Unwritten Diary and follow closely the curriculum vitae of the composer,9
but they are fleshed out with an abundance of information. Dibble’s chronological
treatment is divided into five parts of twelve chapters;10 Rodmell’s approach is much
the same, though it is partitioned into two discrete sections, a life and works, and an
evaluation and conclusion: the first section “explores the general inter-relationships
between the man and his music,” the second emphasizes “the significance of this
in relation to Stanford’s working environment as teacher, writer, and composer.”11
Together, the two volumes provide a rich and replete portrait;12 indeed, the two
authors re-establish Stanford as a musicological focal point and present superb
explications of the composer’s life and music based upon an extensive reading in
issues of reception and the musical culture of Stanford’s time, and upon sources
that have expanded significantly since Greene’s death in 1936. For example, many
musical manuscripts have been bequeathed or loaned permanently to libraries, or
purchased by them (such as is the case with the British Library), which augment
the extensive holdings of Stanford at the Royal College of Music and the Stanford
archive, initiated by Frederick Hudson, at the University of Newcastle.13
A perusal of the autograph manuscripts confirm the observations of one Stanford
scholar: “He was a rapid worker. He scarcely ever made a sketch. Even complicated
works were written straight into score, in ink, without previous preparation.”14
Consequently, Stanford’s autographs are rather clean and uncluttered, as opposed
to, say, those of Parry and Vaughan Williams, many of which are extremely
messy and somewhat illegible. However, one work by Stanford exhibits extensive
emendation—the oratorio The Three Holy Children, Op. 22 (1885)—which makes
it a subject of considerable interest.
Context, Design, Extant Scores, and Revisions
The genesis of The Three Holy Children was a commission for the Birmingham
Festival. Completed on 10 February 1885, it was premiered later that year
(28 August) with Hans Richter (1843–1916), recently appointed as conductor,
making his first appearance.15 “After and along with Bayreuth,” Richter wrote in
his diary, “the finest thing I have experienced.”16 With the assistance of the Dean of
Two Versions of The Three Holy Children by Charles Stanford 63
Chester, John Saul Howson, and two colleagues of Trinity College, Canon Percy
Hudson and Mr. H.F. Wilson, Stanford had compiled a libretto with a compelling
and dramatic plot derived from Psalm 137 (“By the waters of Babylon we sat
down and wept”) with additional lines of text taken from Psalms 74 and 79;
Psalm 102 (“The heathen shall fear”) and Chapter 4 of Baruch; the story as related
in Chapter 3 of Daniel, the Prayer of Azarias, and the Song of the Three Holy
Children, which is coupled with Psalm 148. Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon,
who has constructed on the plain of Dura a magnificent golden image of Bel,
commands his subjects to worship it under penalty of death by fire. Some Assyrian
soldiers, on their way to comply, encounter a group of Jewish women by the river
Euphrates, who are mourning over their captivity; the women reply to the soldiers’
taunts with songs of praise for their lost country, Sion, and imprecations on their
enemies, and are comforted by a prophecy of their release from captivity. Among
the crowds assembled on the plain are three influential Jews—Ananias, Azarias,
and Misael—who denounce all idolatrous worship. After refusing to obey the
orders of Nebuchadnezzar, they are cast into a furnace where they are unharmed
by the flames; the King, astonished by this miracle, joins the people in praise of
the one true God.
The composite text was framed in two parts, the former—“By the waters of
Babylon” (up to the story of Daniel)—consisting of six movements, the latter—
“On the Plain of Dura”—of eleven; and dispersed through arias, choruses, and
protracted fugues with which each part culminates.17 Part I includes:
• No. 1, Introduction and Chorus (“By the waters of Babylon”);

• No. 2, March and Chorus (“Sing us one of the songs”);
• No. 3, Solo (Soprano) and Chorus (“If I forget thee”);
• No. 4, Chorus (“Down with them!”);
• No. 5, Solo (Soprano) and Chorus (“O daughter of Babylon”);
• No. 6, Chorus (“The heathen shall fear Thy name”);
and Part II:
• No. 7, Chorus of Assyrians (“Bel! Great is thy name”) and Trio (Three
Children) (“As for the images”);
• No. 8, Solo (The Herald) and Chorus (“To you it is commanded”);
• No. 9, Instrumental Interlude and Chorus (“Bel! Great is thy name”);
• No. 10, Semi-Chorus (“O King, live for ever”), Solo (The King) (“Is it
true?”), and Trio (Three Children) (“Our God whom we serve”);
• No. 11, Chorus (“Then was the king full of fury”);
• No. 12, Solo (Azarias) and Trio (Three Children) (“Blessed art Thou”);
• No. 13, Solo (Soprano) and Semi-Chorus (“Ye are my witnesses”);
• No. 14, Instrumental Interlude and Chorus (“And the King’s servants”);
• No. 15—Solo (Soprano) (“But the angel of the Lord”);
• No. 16, Solo (The King), Trio, and Chorus (“Did we not cast three men”);
• No. 17, Double Chorus (“O all ye works of the Lord”).
A piano-vocal edition was released by Stanley Lucas, Weber & Co. in 1885,
but the autograph from which it was derived has gone missing—most unfortunate
because it could have revealed invaluable information vis-à-vis the published score.
As we know, composers of the period routinely provided their publishers with a
manuscript piano-vocal score from which an edition was prepared, published, and
distributed to the chorus at the rehearsals and sold to the public for the premiere.
Conversely, an autograph full score, rarely published, was used in performance.
The autograph full score, housed in the Royal College of Music (as MS 4162),
may be summarized as follows.18 The manuscript is bound in brown leather with
the title, composer’s name, and full score indication embossed in (faded) gold on
the spine. Measuring c. 13″ vertically by 10″ horizontally, the 20-stave to 24-stave
manuscript paper is penned in black ink—that is, Stanford used 20-stave paper to
page 66; 24-stave paper from page 67 to page 162; 20-stave paper from page 163 to
page 210; 24-stave paper from page 211 to page 218; 20-stave paper from page 219
to page 320; and 24-stave paper from page 321 to page 347, the end. A frontispiece
gives instrumental indications: “Instruments required in performance. / 1 Piccolo /
2 Flutes / 2 Oboes / 1 Cor Anglais / 2 Clarinets / 2 Bassoons / 4 Horns / 3 Trumpets
/ 3 Trombones / 1 Bass Tuba / Kettle Drum / Side Drum / Large Drum / Cymbals /
Triangle / 2 Harps / and Strings.” The first leaf is the title page; the verso is blank.
Pagination by Stanford commences with the second leaf, labeled page 1 and the
pagination continues successively with both recto and verso being numbered.
Blue pencil is used to indicate metronome markings, rehearsal letters, places
where the chorus is to stand, and so forth (clearly, the autograph was used as the
performance score); pencil and red pencil are used to add accidentals (where they
were left out originally); clefs and key signatures occur, variously, at the beginning
of a verso, of a section, or of movement. Other emendations are of three kinds:
(i) crossed-out short passages of music that were omitted from the published
piano-vocal score, (ii) crossed-out long passages of music that were retained in
the piano-vocal score, and (iii) melodic, harmonic, or rhythmic alterations that did
or did not appear in the piano-vocal score.
Specifically, pages 102–3 (that is, mm. 1–17 of No. 6 for the Chorus) are crossed
out, but these remained in the published vocal score (p. 59). On pages 127–8, ten
measures before rehearsal letters Mm in No. 6 are crossed out; however, these
are not deleted from the vocal score (pp. 71–2). On pages 130–31, two measures
before Nn in No. 6 are crossed out: that is, the last measure of page 130 and the
first measure of page 131 (Vi-de appears at the top of the system), and these were
omitted from the vocal score. On page 152, two measures before A in No. 7 are
crossed out but, again, these remained in the published score (p. 85).
On pages 180–82, there are notes penciled (faintly) into the chorus part at the
beginning of the recapitulation of the March in No. 7, starting seven measures
after the double bar and continuing for sixteen measures (vocal score pp. 102–3),
which do not appear in the published edition. On page 208, measures 4, 6, 8, and
9 in No. 9 are crossed out; these correspond to measures 3, 5, 7, and 8 (after Q)

in the vocal score (p. 116). This climactic passage in preparation for the Tempo I
Adagio on page 209 seems to have been re-written minutely, for the rapid treble
figurations and chord progressions are somewhat different in the vocal score (see
Figure 3.1). One can only speculate that the change was executed at the proof
stage. Similarly, pages 247–8 have been crossed out, along with the last measure
of page 246, and these were omitted in the published edition.
Finally, pages 291–303 of No. 15 exhibit numerous note cancellations and
revisions to the vocal line, beginning six measures after Pp on page 295 and on
page 301 (vocal score pp. 168–9, m. 7 and p. 172, mm. 3–6), as well as to the
entire score as follows: on page 298, measures 4–6 are crossed out from the six-
measure system (vocal score p. 170); page 299 is crossed out completely (also
vocal score p. 170), as is page 300 (vocal score p. 171); and measure 1 of page
301 is crossed out (also vocal score p. 171). Essentially, the revisions improved
the contour of the melody and the concision of the aria (from 76 measures to
60) by deleting its last two phrases; that is, Stanford had taken the lines of the
text and, guided by its punctuation, divided them into six phrases, each of which
cadenced in E@, g, C, E@, E@, and E@ (via brief tonicizations of A@, f, c, B@, A@, and
F). However, the published vocal score retained the version that is visible beneath
the cancellations.19
While it is possible that the emendations were made after the initial
performance to tighten the musical discourse between numbers or in them, or
to tailor a particular number for a different singer—for example, after the 1885
premiere at Birmingham, the oratorio was performed by the Birmingham Festival
Choral Society (1885), by Swinnerton Heap with the Wolverhampton Festival
Choral Society (1885), by the Hallé in Manchester (1886), and by Barnby’s
London Musical Society (1886)—it is more likely that they were executed for a
much later presentation. Inasmuch as manuscripts of another full score exist, in
which the musical material has been altered significantly, it would appear that the
emendations on the RCM autograph represent Stanford’s initial tentative ideas for
revision, which became much more extensive at a later date.
The latter full score, in two volumes, is deposited in the British Library (as MS
Mus. 901–2).20 These are a conflation of two different manuscripts, an 1885 version
in Stanford’s hand (autograph)21 and a later revised version in the hand of a copyist.
Together they reflect the changes that resulted in the 1902 new edition of the piano-
vocal score.22 The newly written manuscript sections were inserted into the autograph
(the old sections were discarded) in movement sequence and bound together with
the pre-existing portions. As a result, there are fifteen numbers in the revised version
versus the seventeen in the original (see Chapter 3 Appendix for the complete text
with changes). In some instances, corrections were written directly into the autograph
by Stanford or he deleted measures by cancelling them with pastedowns (collettes)
or with mark-throughs. Numbers one through five were not revised. MS Mus. 901
consists of Nos. 1–6, whereas MS Mus. 902 comprises Nos. 7–15.
Figure 3.1 The Three Holy Children (1885), full score, GB-Lcm Add. 4162,
fol. 208v
Changes to No. 6 (in MS Mus. 901) may be found on fols 63v–64v (Stanford
paginated the recto/verso of each page but here the BL foliations are given), where
the A/T/B parts were written into the autograph (1902 vocal score, p. 71, mm. 6–9)
and the ten measures before Mm were deleted by Stanford marking through them
(vocal score pp. 71–2), as well as on fols 65v–66v, where two measures before
Nn were excised in the same fashion (vocal score, p. 72). Nos. 7 and 8 from fols
1r–26v were rewritten significantly by the copyist and reflect the new version of
1902 from pages 83–106. The revisions tighten the joins of a few phrase segments
by eliminating several measures, alter the choral parts and harmonic progressions at
a number of cadences, and re-cast a larger section with new compositional material.
No. 7 consists of four sections, the first a chorus for the Assyrians (Allegretto),
the second a trio for the Three Holy Children (Largo pesante), the third a chorus
for the Assyrians (Allegro con brio), and the last a march for the Assyrians (Allegro
assai vivace, alla Marcia). The meter of the first section was changed from ²¼ in
the 1885 score to ¦¼ in the 1902 version, and the measure lines were shifted to
accommodate the music. Revisions to tighten the construction may be seen at the
following: two measures before rehearsal letter A, repetitions of the two preceding
measures were excised in the 1885 score (p. 85, mm. 5–6), which creates a single
measure in the 1902 (p. 84, m. 1); eight measures were changed in the 1885 (p.
91, mm. 2–9) to those in the 1902 (p. 89, mm. 2–3); and six measures were altered
in the 1885 (p. 92, m. 7 to p. 93, m. 5) to those in the 1902 (p. 90, mm. 1–2).
Revisions to the choral parts and their harmonies occur at the following: four
measures at rehearsal letter D in the former (pp. 88, mm. 13–15 and p. 89, m. 1)
to the latter (p. 87, mm. 4–5); four measures at E (an excision and change) in the
former (p. 90, mm. 4–5 and mm. 6–7 were deleted) to the latter (p. 88, m. 6); and
four measures at the conclusion of the section in the former (at p. 96, mm. 15–18)
to the latter (p. 92, mm. 11–12).
The trio for the Three Holy Children was rewritten entirely (and reduced from
50 measures to 35). In the 1885 score, it commences in a ponderous ³¼ time and
a dark C minor (Example 3.1), then moves through G to E@ where a sequential
passage leads to a return of the music at the beginning of the number in ²¼ and C
major (p. 96, last measure, to p. 102, m. 9). The voices sing in block harmony,
primarily, with some imitative fragments. In the 1902 score, the new version—a
continuation of what has gone before—is in a quick tempo (with filigree work in
the orchestra) and a bright C major (Example 3.2), then flows to e, d, a, d, and
A minor before cadencing in the E major of the march (the ²¼, C major music of
“Bel! Great is thy name” is eliminated). It includes the chorus of Assyrians, too,
who provide contrapuntal interest to the homophony of the Three Holy Children.
The last section, the recapitulation of the march, is almost identical in both scores
with the exception of the choral parts added to the beginning of the 1902 score
(pp. 100–101) and the change of the last two measures at the conclusion (p. 104),
which were not included in the 1885 published score (pp. 102–3). Clearly, this is
a realization of the penciled-in notes on pages 180v–182v of the RCM autograph.
No. 8 is in two sections, the first a solo and the second a chorus for the Assyrians.
The solo in the 1885 score (33 measures long) is written for the Herald, a baritone,
in common time (L’istesso tempo) and C major; in the 1902 version (24 measures
in length), it is refashioned for the King, a bass, in ³¼ (Lento solenne) and C major.
The chorus is identical in both scores with the exception of the concluding three
measures in the former (p. 109) altered to two in the latter (p. 106). No. 9 (from
fols 27r–39v) is in Stanford’s hand on his pre-existing score, but changes were
Example 3.1 The Three Holy Children by Charles Stanford, “As for the images of
the heathen” (Trio) (vocal score; Stanley Lucas, 1885), p. 97
Example 3.2 The Three Holy Children by Charles Stanford, “As for the gods of
the heathen” (Trio revised) (vocal score; Boosey, 1902), p. 93
effected with an eight-measure pastedown on fol. 28r (a reworking of the flute,

oboe, clarinet, and bassoon parts) and on fol. 34v (mm. 4, 6, and 8), where several
measures of the 1885 score (p. 116, mm. 3, 5, 7, and 8) were deleted in the 1902
score (p. 113). These correspond to page 208v of the RCM autograph.
Nos. 10–12 (from fols 41v–63r) were rewritten, beginning with the King’s
solo in No. 10 (p. 118) to No. 12 (p. 139, m. 5). No. 10 is in three sections, the
first a semi-chorus of Assyrian Nobles (Allegro assai vivace), the second a solo for
the King (Maestoso), and the third a trio for the Three Holy Children (Allegretto
moderato). The first chorus is identical in both scores. The solo in the 1885 score
(38 measures in duration) is written in common time and A minor; in the 1902
version (20 measures long), the time signature remains the same, while the rhythm
of the accompanying gesture is subjected to diminution and the voice part is
lowered slightly. The subsequent trio (38 measures) is much the same, though in
the 1885 score a few measures are deleted or compressed and the voice parts are
shifted (p. 122, last measure; p. 123, measures 1, 8, and 9; p. 124, m. 2; and p. 125,
m. 1) to tighten the construction in the 1902 edition, where also the harmony and
voice parts of the concluding measures are reworked from the four of the former
(p. 127) to the three of the latter (p. 123) in preparation for the new key (d rather
than a) of the succeeding movement.
Hence No. 11, a chorus, is set on a different tonal plateau from rehearsal
letter X. In the 1885 score, it is written in þ¾ time (Allegro assai e con fuoco) and
begins in A minor, while in the 1902 version it commences (Allegro con fuoco) in
D minor. Thereafter, the music is identical.
Nos. 12 and 13 were entirely rewritten. In the 1885 score, the exceedingly
fine music of No. 12, a large and demanding aria for tenor and the short trio, was
eliminated completely (Example 3.3), as was the subsequent music for No. 13, a
soprano solo interlaced with the Renaissance-like strains of the semi-chorus. In
the 1902 edition, these were replaced with a chorus and a much less rigorous tenor
aria (in that order) using the passacaglia music from No. 14 of the 1885 score. The
introductory material of the new movement in A minor is almost the same as the
original, excepting the deletion of the first six measures (vocal score p. 157) and
the insertion of one measure before each reiteration of the passacaglia, making it
nine measures in length rather than eight. The chorus is altered and abbreviated,
for the soprano and alto parts are removed and the music does not continue with
the grandiloquent statement in A major. Rather, dispensing with the first line of
text (from “And the King’s servants” to “and pitch, and tow, and wood”), it flows
through an interlude in A minor to the new tenor aria constructed on the edifice
of the passacaglia (Example 3.4). The aria is in two sections, the first in A minor
using the initial four lines of Azarias’s text (from “Blessed art Thou” to “all Thy
judgments truth”), the second in C major continuing with the next portion of text
(from “For we have sinned” to “depart from us”). At this point, the chorus returns
with new music to some of the lines from No. 13 of the 1885 score (from “Ye
are My witnesses” to “I am he”) set to the passacaglia, transferred to the treble
instruments, and accompanying the last line of text (“But in a contrite heart”,
etc.) delivered by the tenor. Thereafter, the movement culminates with the choral
setting from the 1885 score (p. 159, m. 4 to the end, p. 165). The remainder of the
complex of numbers consists of the autograph manuscript material.
No. 13 (from fols 73r–81v) is in Stanford’s hand with his changes entered
in pencil as ossia, or as cancellations with mark-throughs, and a pastedown
to become the 1902 version. The ossia to the vocal part may be found on fols
75r–77r and on 79v (p. 147, m. 6 to p. 148, m. 7 and p. 149, mm. 8–11) and are
identical to those of No. 15 in the RCM autograph full score. The mark-throughs
are located on fols 77v–79r and 81v. The pastedown (in size almost one-half of
the folio) is affixed to fol. 80r (but labeled as fol. 81) where a note written at the
top of the leaf reads: “No. 14 here copy from new score.” Folio 80v has been
marked through. Revised material follows on fols 82r–86v (pp. 150–56), from
the entrance of the King to “There is no other God” (two measures before Uu).
Thereafter, the autograph material—with a one-measure pastedown from top to
bottom on fol. 87r—proceeds to the conclusion and, thus, the music is identical to
the early version.
This material corresponds to No. 14 of the 1902 edition, which is a revamping
of No. 16 of the 1885 score. The original setting is in several sections, a brief
solo for the King with chorus (Allegro vivace), a trio for the Three Holy Children
(Allegretto moderato), another solo for the King (Allegro maestoso), and a final
short chorus (Lento, molto maestoso). The initial solo with chorus (23 measures
long) is written in common time and C minor. In the 1902 version, the time
signature remains the same, though the tempo (Allegro moderato) is slightly
varied, while the key center is ambiguous and the voice part is lower; furthermore,
the introduction of three measures (p. 173) is vastly different from the earlier
example of seven measures (p. 150). In the 1885 score, the harmonic progression
underlining the description of the men in the fire (p. 174) is changed to that of
the latter (pp. 150–51). The succeeding trio (27 measures) parallels that of No.
10 in the 1885 score and, here, undergoes similar treatment: a few measures are
contracted and the voice parts are slightly altered (p. 175, mm. 2–3 and 4–5; p.
176, mm. 2, 4–5; p. 177, mm. 1–2 and 4–5; p. 178, m. 5) to tighten the construction
in the 1902 edition. In the latter, too, the music of the following solo is not unlike
the melodic content and harmonic accompaniment, though with minor rhythmic
variations, of the 1885 score. The concluding Double Chorus is identical in both
scores, with the 1902 edition being labeled No. 17 rather than No. 15.
Example 3.3 The Three Holy Children by Charles Stanford, “Blessed art thou”
(Tenor aria) (vocal score; Stanley Lucas, 1885), pp. 135–6
A Cohesive Score of Great Appeal
The Three Holy Children is marked by its ensemble set pieces, demonstrated by
the large neo-Handelian choruses closing the two parts of the huge work and by
the function of the chorus as turba. As Jeremy Dibble observes:
This is perhaps most powerfully exemplified in the first five sections of Part
I where the female choruses of Jewish women are interspersed with male
choruses of Assyrian warriors, the contrast of which is accentuated by Stanford’s
vivid use of “lament” and “march” style forms. At the heart of the arch structure
(ABCBA), whose frame is clearly defined by the tonality of E minor, is a
Example 3.4 The Three Holy Children by Charles Stanford, “Blessed art thou”
(Tenor aria revised) (vocal score; Boosey, 1902), p. 134
euphonious “song” for solo soprano and female chorus (“If I forget thee, O
Jerusalem”), in C major, a key prophetic of Part II.23
The choral numbers also predominate in Part II, but their increased variety via the
addition of a semi-chorus in No. 13 in the 1885 score is diminished by its deletion
in the 1902 edition; the replacement is less striking. The solo numbers, specifically
the short but important entrance of the Herald, and Azarias’s large aria (“Blessed
art thou, O God of our fathers”), are arresting in the 1885 score but, when revised
in the 1902 edition, they are less significant musically, especially the latter, which
no longer parallels in key (A@) the grand chorus that concludes Part I.
Even more noticeable is the function of the orchestra, mentioned by Dibble,
“which is fundamental to the unbroken continuity of the oratorio’s two divisions
and to the cohesive matrix of representative themes.”24 There are two primary
themes established in the instrumental introduction, x and y, though the latter is
ambiguous and often suggested by the key with which it is associated, C, the polar
tonal area to the E minor of the former. The themes and tonal areas, together or
separately, are utilized in a manner that provides formal coherence to the work. As
examples, one can cite, in No. 1, the chorus “By the waters of Babylon,” emerging
from theme x in E minor, which recurs in No. 5; and, in No. 2, the march (in E
major) built on theme x, which reappears in Nos. 4, 7, and 9 (the last in D). This
symmetry is created, also, through the repetition of other blocks of identical music
(though transposed), keys without thematic links, and performance ambience. For
instance, in No. 10, the music of the Trio (in A) returns in No. 16 (in C); whereas
Nos. 6 and 12, as mentioned above, are connected by their tonal areas (A@), as are
Nos. 3 and 13 (in C), which share their rhapsodic arpeggiations with No. 9 (in D)
(see Table 3.1). To Dibble, some of these recurrences are the result of Stanford’s
employment of the orchestra for theatrical effect.
This is vigorously demonstrated by the expansive prelude of the first section

and its recurrence in the latter part of the fifth, but even more so by the bracing
march of the Assyrians … in the second section. … The power of the march idea
to evoke a sense of menace is felt at the close of the fourth section, but more
portentous is its recurrence at the conclusion of the “Chorus of the Assyrians”
which begins Part II, an effect enhanced by its unexpected arrival in E major
(and not C) and Stanford’s compelling development of the material in which C
major is finally restored.25
Dibble goes on to write: “The inclusion of the march is only one of several
substantial passages for orchestra which help to provide dramatic contrast in the
much larger structure of Part II, though the two most noteworthy are sections nine
and fourteen. These movements, entitled ‘Instrumental Interlude and Chorus’,
are essentially orchestral in nature with choral interjection, section nine being an
expansive slow movement punctuated at three points by a devotional refrain from
the chorus (‘Bel! Great is thy name’) and section fourteen, a passacaglia, whose
Table 3.1 The Three Holy Children: chart of tonal areas and themes
Table 3.1 Chart of tonal areas and themes
[Revised movements are indicated with italics]
Part I
I. Instrumental Introduction = e (theme x) and C (theme y) /

Chorus (“By the waters of Babylon”) = e (theme x)
II. March (Instrumental) and Chorus (“Sing us one of the songs”) = E (x)
III. Soprano and Chorus (“If I forget thee”) = C
IV. Chorus (“Down with them!”) = C (y′) /

March = E (x)
V. Soprano and Chorus (“O daughters of Babylon”) = e /

Chorus (“By the waters of Babylon”) = e (x)
VI. Chorus (“The heathen shall fear thy name”) = A
Part II
VII. Chorus (Bel! Great is thy name”) = C / Trio (“As for the images”) = c /
Chorus = C / March = E (x)
VIII. Herald (“To you it is commanded”) = C, a /

Chorus (“O king, live forever”) = C
IX. Instrumental Interlude and Chorus (“Then was the king full of fury”) = D /
March = D (x’)
X. Chorus (“O king live forever”) = d / King (“Is it true?”) = a /

Trio (“O God whom we serve”) = A
XI. Chorus (“There as the king full of fury”) = a
XII. Solo (“Blessed art thou”) = A /

Trio (“And let them know”) = A (x′)
XIII. Soprano and Semi-Chorus (“Ye are my witnesses”) = C
XIV. Instrumental Interlude and Chorus (“And the King’s servants”) = a, A, a (passacaglia)
XV. Solo (“But the angel of the Lord”) = E
XVI. King and Chorus (“Did we not cast three men”) = C /

Trio (“Blessed art thou”) = C /
King (“Ye servants of the most high God”) = C, E (x′), A (x′) /
Chorus (“There is no other God”) = A to C
Table 3.1 Concluded
XVII. Double Chorus (“O all ye works”) = C (y′) /

(“For his name is excellent”) = C (x)
-------------------------------------------------- [1902] --------------------------------------------------
XII. Orchestral Interlude = a (passacaglia) /

Solo (“Blessed art Thou”) = a, C (passacaglia) /
Soprano and Alto Chorus (“Ye are my witnesses”) = C (passacaglia) /
SATB Chorus (“And the king’s servants”) = a, A (passacaglia)
XIII. Solo (“But the angel of the Lord”) = E
XIV. King and Chorus (“Did we not cast three men”) = E, c, then fluid /
Trio (“Blessed art thou”) = C /
King (“Ye servants of the most high God”) = C, E (x′), A (x′) /
Chorus (“There is no other God”) = A to C
XV. Double Chorus (“O all ye works”) = C (y′) /

(“For his name is excellent”) = C (x)
cumulative complexity is analogous to the increasing fury of the furnace.”26 It is

unfortunate, however, that the latter was changed through the revision process.
Nevertheless, one wonders why The Three Holy Children is not heard today—
especially the 1885 version, which confirmed Stanford’s reputation as a composer
of large-scale choral works—for it is a magnificent setting replete with beautiful
music that illustrates Stanford’s gift of melodic and tonal fluency. The emendations
described above are rare in the autograph manuscripts of Stanford, because his
compositional gift was so remarkably fluent that it enabled him to compose straight
into score without the prior use of sketches and drafts. Yet here we have revisions
to the autograph of 1885 that were transferred and more fully completed in the
manuscripts that led to the published version of 1902. What was the impetus for
Stanford to alter his score? Did he rewrite it to accommodate specific singers or a
particular venue, to improve some perceived deficiency, or simply to abbreviate it?
These are not questions that can be answered at this writing. However, it is clear
that, in the 1885 version of The Three Holy Children, Stanford produced a work
that exhibited novel features; for example, an innovative use of the orchestra, far
surpassing the contemporary English oratorio. It was this version that influenced
Edward Elgar, who played in the performance by the Birmingham Festival Choral
Society on 7 October 1885, which is apparent from a note on a sketch for The
Dream of Gerontius.27 That evidence alone should make the exceptional music and
extant scores of the greatest interest to musicologists.
Chapter 3 Appendix: Text of The Three Holy Children (1885/revised 1902)

by Charles Stanford
The text as printed in the 1902 vocal score. Lines deleted from the 1885 edition are
enclosed in brackets; substituted or added lines for the 1902 version are inserted
in bold italics.
PART I
(BY THE WATERS OF BABYLON)
No. 1—INTRODUCTION & CHORUS

Jewish Women—By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept; when we
remembered thee, O Sion.
As for our harps we hanged them up; upon the trees that are therein.
For they that led us away captive required of us then a song, and melody, in
our heaviness. (Ps. cxxxvii. 1, 2, 3)
No. 2—MARCH & CHORUS

Assyrian Warriors—Sing us one of the songs of Sion.
Jewish Women—How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land? (Ps.
cxxxvii. 3, 4)
No. 3—SONG & CHORUS

Soprano Solo and Jewish Women—If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my
right hand forget her cunning.
If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth;
yea, if I prefer not Jerusalem in the day of my mirth. (Ps. cxxxvii. 5, 6)
O God, the heathen have come into Thine inheritance; Thy holy temple
have they defiled, and made Jerusalem an heap of stones. (Ps. lxxix. 1)
No. 4—CHORUS
Assyrian Warriors—Down with them! Come, let us make havock of them
altogether. Let us burn up the houses of God in the land.
Down with them, down with them, even unto the ground. (Ps. lxxiv. 9; Ps.
cxxxvii. 7)
No. 5—SOLO & CHORUS

Soprano Solo and Jewish Women—O daughter of Babylon, wasted with
misery: yea, happy shall he be that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us.
Blessed shall he be that taketh thy children; and dasheth them against the
stones. (Ps. cxxvii. 8, 9)
By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept; when we remembered
thee, O Sion. (Ps. cxxxvii. 1)
No. 6—CHORUS
The heathen shall fear Thy name, O Lord, and all the kings of the earth Thy
Majesty; when the Lord shall build up Sion, and when His glory shall appear. (Ps.
cii. 15, 16)
O Jerusalem, look about thee towards the east, and behold the joy that
cometh unto thee from God.
For lo! thy sons come, whom thou sentest away; they come gathered
together from the east to the west by the word of the Holy One, rejoicing in the
glory of God. (Baruch iv. 36, 37)
{Changes to No. 6 (in MS Mus. 901) may be found on fols 63v–64v—where
the A/T/B parts (see the 1902 vocal score, p. 71, mm. 6–9) were written into the
autograph, and the ten measures before Mm were deleted by Stanford marking
through them—and on fols 65v–66v, where two measures before Nn (p. 72) were
excised in the same fashion.}
PART II
(ON THE PLAIN OF DURA)
No. 7—CHORUS OF ASSYRIANS

Bel! great is thy name, among all gods most honoured thou.
With fuller hand thou givest back the gifts we bring to thee.
Kingship be thine over gods and men,
High they command, unconquered they sword,
Tremble thy foes over all the earth! (From an Assyrian Inscription)
The Three Children—As for the [images] gods of the heathen, they are but
silver and gold: even the work of men’s hands.
They have mouths, and speak not; eyes have they, but they see not.
They have ears, and yet they hear not; nether is there any breath in their
mouths.
They that make them are like unto them; and so are all they that put their
trust in them. (Ps. cxxxv. 15, 16, 17, 18)
Chorus of Assyrians—Bel! great is thy name!
Away with these blasphemers! We will worship Bel!
The King! See where he approacheth; see where he draweth nigh!
See the glitter of the spears of his horsemen,
The trappings of his horses, how they spread upon the plain as a cloud.
[Kingship be thine over gods and men.] (The King and Assyrian Warriors
enter.)
O king, live for ever. Thy greatness is grown, and reacheth unto heaven,
and thy dominion to the end of the earth. (Daniel iv. 22)
No. 8—THE [HERALD] KING AND CHORUS OF ASSYRIANS

[Herald.] King.—To you it is commanded, O people, nations, and languages,
that at what time ye hear the sound of musick, ye fall down and worship the golden
image that the king hath set up; and whoso falleth not down and worshippeth, shall
the same hour be cast into the midst of a burning fiery furnace. (Dan. iii. 4, 5, 6)
Chorus—O king, live for ever: thy greatness is grown and reacheth unto
heaven, and thy dominion to the ends of the earth. (Dan. iv. 22)
{Nos. 7 and 8 from fols 1r–26v were entirely rewritten by the copyist and reflect
the new version of 1902 from pp. 83–106.}
No. 9—INSTRUMENTAL INTERLUDE AND CHORUS

Assyrian Worshippers.—Bel! great is thy name!
{No. 9 from fols 27r–39v is in Stanford’s hand on his pre-existing score, but
changes were effected with an eight-measure pastedown on fol. 28r (a reworking
of the fl., ob, clar. and bassoon parts) and on fol. 34v (mm. 4, 6, and 8) or p. 113 of
the 1902 vocal score (mm. 12, 14, and 16).}
No. 10—THE KING, THE THREE CHILDREN, SEMI-CHORUS OF

ASSYRIANS NOBLES
Semi-Chorus—O king, live for ever. There are certain Jews whom thou set
over Babylon, Ananias, Azarias and Misael; these men, O king, have not regarded
thee; they serve not thy gods, nor worship the golden image which thou hast set up.
The King—Is it true? Do ye not serve my gods, nor worship the golden
image which I have set up? Now if ye fall down and worship, well; but if ye
worship not, ye shall be cast the same hour into the midst of a burning fiery
furnace; and who is that God that shall deliver you out of my hand?
The Three Children—Our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from
the burning fiery furnace, and He will deliver us out of thine hand, O king. But if
not, be it known unto thee, O king, we will not serve thy gods, nor worship the
golden image which thou hast set up. (Dan. iii. 9, 12, 14, 15, 17, 18)
{Nos. 10–12 (from fols 41v–63r) were rewritten, beginning with the King’s part in
No. 10 (p. 118) to No. 12 (p. 139, m. 5). The remainder of the complex of numbers
consists of the autograph manuscript material.}
No. 11—CHORUS
Then was the king full of fury, and the form of his visage was changed
against the men; therefore he spake, and commanded that they should heat the
furnace seven times more than it was wont to be heated.
And he commanded the most mighty men that were in his army to bind and
cast them into the furnace.
Then these three men were bound, and cast into the midst of the burning
fiery furnace. (Dan. iii. 19, 20, 21)
Semi-Chorus of Jewish Women—O daughter of Babylon, wasted with
misery; yea, happy shall he be that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us. (Ps.
cxxxvii. 8)
[No. 12—THE THREE CHILDREN]

No. 12—ORCHESTRAL INTERLUDE AND CHORUS. AZARIAS
Chorus—And the King’s servants that cast them in ceased not to make
the furnace hot with rosin, and pitch, and tow, and wood;
So that the flame streamed forth high above the furnace;
And it passed through and slew those whom it found about the furnace
(Song of the Three Children, 23, 24, 24.)
Azarias—Blessed art Thou, O Lord God of our fathers; Thy Name is
worthy to be praised and glorified for evermore;
For Thou art righteous in all the things that Thou hast done to us: yea, true
are all Thy works, Thy ways are right, and all Thy judgments truth.
For we have sinned and committed iniquity, departing from Thee.
In all things have we trespassed, and not obeyed Thy commandments, [nor
kept them, neither done as Thou hast commanded us, that it might go well with us.
And now we cannot open our mouths, we are become a shame and reproach
to Thy servants, and to them that worship Thee.]
Yet deliver us not up wholly, for Thy Name’s sake, [neither disannul Thou
Thy covenant:]
And cause not Thy mercy to depart from us,
But in a contrite heart and humble spirit let us be accepted.
[And now we follow Thee with all our heart; we fear Thee, and seek Thy
face.
Put us not to shame: but deal with us after Thy loving-kindness, and
according to the multitude of Thy mercies.
Deliver us also according to Thy marvellous works, and give glory to Thy
name, O Lord; and let all them that do Thy servants hurt be ashamed;
And let them be confounded in all their power and might, and let their
strength be broken;
The Three Children—And let them know that Thou art Lord, the only God,
and glorious over the whole world.] (Song of the Three Children[, 3, 4, 6, 7, 10,
11, 16, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22])
[No. 13—SOPRANO SOLO AND SEMI-CHORUS

Ye are My witnesses and My servants whom I have chosen; that ye may
know and believe Me, and understand that I am He; before Me there was no God
formed, neither shall be after Me.
I, even I, am the Lord; and beside Me there is no Saviour. (Isaiah xliii. 10)]
Chorus—Ye are My witnesses and My servants whom I have chosen; that
ye may know and believe Me, and understand that I am He. (Isaiah xliii. 10)
[No. 14—INSTRUMENTAL INTERLUDE AND CHORUS

And the King’s servants that cast them in ceased not to make the furnace
hot with rosin, and pitch, and tow, and wood;
So that the flame streamed forth high above the furnace;
And it passed through and slew those whom it found about the furnace
(Song of the Three Children, 23, 24, 25)]
[No. 15—SOLO]
No. 13—SOLO
Soprano—But the angel of the Lord came down into the furnace, and smote
the flame of the fire out of the furnace;
And made the midst of the furnace as it had been a moist whistling wind,
so that the fire touched them not at all, neither hurt nor troubled them. (Song of the
Three Children, 26, 27)
{No. 13 (from fols 73r–81v) is in Stanford’s hand with his changes written with
pencil into it as ossia or effected by cancellations with mark-throughs and a
pastedown to become the 1902 version. The ossia to the vocal part may be found
on fols 75r–77r and on 79v (p. 147, m. 6–p. 148, m. 7 and p. 149, mm. 8–11) and
are identical to those in the RCM autograph full score. The mark-throughs are
located on fols 77v–79r and 81v. The pastedown (in size almost one-half of the
folio) is on fol. 80r (it is foliated as fol. 81) and a note was written at the top of the
leaf that reads: “No. 14 here copy from new score”. Folio 80v has been marked
through.}
[No. 16—THE KING, THE THREE CHILDREN, CHORUS OF ASSYRIANS

AND JEWS]
No. 14—THE KING, THE THREE CHILDREN AND CHORUS
{Revised material follows on fols 82r–86v (pp. 150–55 Tt), from the entrance of
the King to the word before “hither” (at Tt). Thereafter, autograph material (with a
one-measure pastedown from top to bottom on fol. 87r) proceeds to the conclusion
and, thus, the music is identical to the early version.}
The King—Did we not cast three men bound into the midst of the fire?
Chorus—True, O King.
The King—Lo! I see four men loose, walking in the midst of the fire, and
they have no hurt; and the form of the fourth is like the Song of God. (Dan. iii.
24, 25)
The Three Children—Blessed art thou O Lord God of our fathers, and to be
praised and exalted above all for ever.
And blessed is Thy glorious and holy name, and to be praised and exalted
above all for ever.
Blessed art Thou, in the Temple of Thy holy glory, and to be praised and
exalted above all for ever. (Song of the Three Children, 29, 30, 31)
The King—Ye servants of the Most High God, come forth and come hither.
Blessed be your God, who hath sent His Angel, and delivered His servants that
trusted in Him; there is no other God that can deliver after this sort.
Chorus—There is no other God that can deliver after this sort. (Dan. iii, 28, 29)
[No. 17—DOUBLE CHORUS]

No. 15—DOUBLE CHORUS
O all ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord, praise and exalt Him above
all for ever.
O ye heavens, bless ye the Lord, praise and exalt Him above all for ever.
O ye angels of the Lord, bless ye the Lord, praise and exalt Him above all
for ever.
O ye waters above the heavens, bless ye the Lord, praise and exalt Him
above all for ever.
O ye powers of the Lord, bless ye the Lord, praise and exalt Him above all
for ever.
O ye sun and moon, bless ye the Lord, praise and exalt Him above all for
ever.
O ye stars of heaven bless ye the Lord, praise and exalt Him above all for
ever.
O ye showers and dew, bless ye the Lord, praise and exalt Him above all
for ever.
O ye winds of God, bless ye the Lord, praise and exalt Him above all for
ever.
Praise the Lord upon earth; ye dragons and all deeps;
Fire and hail, snow and vapour; wind and storm fulfilling His word.
O ye mountains and all hills; fruitful trees and all cedars;
O ye fowls of the air, bless ye the Lord, praise and exalt Him above all for
ever.
O ye beasts and cattle, bless ye the Lord, praise and exalt Him above all
for ever.
O ye children of men, bless ye the Lord, praise and exalt Him above all for
ever.
O ye priests of the Lord, bless ye the Lord, praise and exalt Him above all
for ever.
All that worship the Lord, bless ye the Lord, praise and exalt Him above
all for ever.
For His Name only is excellent, and His praise above heaven and earth.
Hallelujah! (Song of the Three Children, and Ps. cxlviii)
THE END
Notes
1 P. Waddington, “Stanford in the Early Days,” RCM Magazine (May 1933): 15.
2 See, for example, Robert Stradling and Merion Hughes, The English Musical
Rensaissance 1860–1940: Construction and Deconstruction (London and New
York, 1993), revised as The English Musical Renaissance 1840–1940: Constructing
a National Music (Manchester and New York, 2001); Nicholas Temperley (ed.),
The Romantic Age 1800–1914, vol. 5 of The Athlone History of Music in Britain
(London, 1981); and Stephen Banfield, Sensibility and English Song: Critical
Studies of the Early Twentieth Century, 2 vols (Cambridge, 1985).
3 Thomas Dunhill, “Charles Villiers Stanford: Some Aspects of his Work and
Influence,” Proceedings of the Royal Musical Association, 53 (1926–27): 41–
65; Herbert Howells, “Charles Villiers Stanford: An Address at his Centenary”,
Proceedings of the Royal Musical Association, 80 (1952–53): 19–31.
4 Jeremy Dibble, C. Hubert H. Parry: His Life and Music (Oxford, 1992); Stephen
Banfield, Gerald Finzi: An English Composer (London, 1997); Ralph Scott Grover,
The Music of Edmund Rubbra (Aldershot, 1993).
5 The most important sources of biographical information are Stanford’s own
autobiography, Pages from an Unwritten Diary (London, 1914), as well as his other
published writings, such as the anthologies Studies and Memories (London, 1908)
and Interludes, Records and Recollections (London, 1922), while other works
such as Musical Composition: A Short Treatise for Students (London, 1911) are an
exposition of the composer’s aesthetics.
6 Jeremy Dibble, Charles Villiers Stanford: Man and Musician (Oxford, 2002), p. viii.
7 Harry Plunket Greene, Charles Villiers Stanford (London, 1935).
8 Dibble, Stanford; Paul Rodmell, Charles Villiers Stanford (Aldershot, 2002).
9 The well-known facts of Stanford’s curriculum vitae are cited in articles, essays,
and lectures, but Dibble and Rodmell scrutinize and clarify them vis-à-vis an
enormous and impressive amount of architectural, historical, genealogical, and
social material that is never encountered when researching the life of the composer.
The whole conspectus of Stanford’s life and work illustrates that he was one of
the central figures in the renaissance of English music. His scholarly writing
was important, though less so than Parry’s—“He never, however, aspired to be a
musicologist and did not write substantial tracts on musical history. … The most
significant aspect of Stanford’s published writings is … that they are the comment
of a significant musician on the state of the world around him and it is in their
status as contemporary comment that they are most illuminating” (Rodmell, pp.
347 and 349)—his compositional output was prolific, though much of his music
was evanescent and is rarely performed; his conducting activity was influential; but,
as a pedagogue, he holds an immensely important historical position through the
achievement of his pupils.
10 Dibble, Stanford: Part I, “Early Influences and Impressions, 1852–1870,” contains
Chapters 1, “Dublin, Family, and Friends,” and 2, “Childhood: Dublin in the
1850s and 1860s”; Part 2, “Formative Years, 1870–1887,” contains Chapters 3,
“Cambridge and the Wanderjahre (Leipzig and Berlin) (1870–1876),” 4, “A
Promising Future: The Cambridge University Musical Society, Opera, and a
Revolution in Church (1877–1882),” and 5, “The Royal College of Music (1883–
1887): Disappointment and Revival”; Part 3, “Recognition, 1888–1901,” contains
Chapters 6, “Professorship at Cambridge: National and International Recognition

(1888–1892),” 7, “Removal from Cambridge, the CUMS Jubilee, and the Focus
of London (1892–1895),” and 8, “Shamus O’Brien, the Requiem, and the Leeds
Philharmonic Society (1896–1900)”; Part 4, “The New Generation, 1901–1914,”
contains Chapters 9, “The Leeds Festival, Knighthood, and the New Generation
(1901–1909),” and 10, “Resignation from Leeds, Patriotism, and Political Isolation
(1910–1914)”; and Part 5, “War and Decline, 1914–1924,” contains Chapters 11,
“The War (1914–1918),” and 12, “The Last Years (1918–1924).”
11 Rodmell, General Editor’s Preface, p. vii. Therefore we have Section 1, “Life and
Work,” with Chapters 1, “An Anglo-Irish Childhood,” 2, “Early Years at Cambridge,”
3, “From Proud Marriage to Operatic Fall,” 4, “At Cambridge Triumphant,” 5, “A
Man about London Town,” 6, “A Long Edwardian Summer,” and 7, “Last Years”;
and Section 2, “Appraisal and Conclusions,” with Chapters 8, “Stanford the
Pedagogue” subdivided into “Conductor and Writer” and “Damned ugly me bhoy”
[sic]—Stanford the Teacher,” and Chapter 9, “Stanford the Composer” subdivided
into “Every Inch an (Anglo-)Irishman?” and “Reception, Perception and Legacy.”
12 However, “in respect of Stanford’s private life we still know next to nothing: his
marriage, his relationship with his children and with his parents, his view on most
moral issues, and his opinion of most of his friends are all areas into which one
gains only fleeting glimpses, mostly through his autobiography and Greene’s book,
both of which control the dissemination of facts carefully.” Rodmell, p. xx.
13 F. Hudson located nearly all of Stanford’s manuscripts, which he documented
in “C.V. Stanford: Nova Bibliographica”, Musical Times, 104 (1963): 728–31;
“C.V. Stanford: Nova Bibliographica II”, Musical Times, 105 (1964): 734–8;
“C.V. Stanford: Nova Bibliographica III”, Musical Times, 108 (1967): 326; and
“A Revised and Extend Catalogue of C.V. Stanford”, Music Review, 37 (1976):
106–29. The British Library possesses a number of Stanford manuscripts, partly
autograph and partly copies, formerly housed there as part of Loan 84 but purchased
by private treaty in 2001 from the publishers Boosey & Hawkes, and incorporated
in October 2003. There are twenty-seven volumes in all: orchestral works with
solo instrument (MSS Mus. 896–7), chamber music (MS Mus. 897), works for
chorus and orchestra (MSS Mus. 899–910), operas and incidental music (MSS
Mus. 911–18), unaccompanied choral music (MSS Mus. 919–20), and songs (MSS
Mus. 921–2). But a far greater number are deposited at the Royal College of Music.
14 Thomas Dunhill, “Charles Villiers Stanford,” in J.R.H. Weaver, The Dictionary of
National Biography 1922–1930 (Oxford, 1937), p. 803.
15 Richter worked as Wagner’s assistant at Tribschen and was later given the task of
auditioning singers and assembling the orchestra for the first Bayreuth Festival. He
was also a conductor at that festival and made return visits to Bayreuth throughout
his career. He became particularly popular in Britain, where he led the annual series
of “Richter Concerts” at the Queen’s Hall from 1879, was engaged regularly at
Covent Garden, was appointed Music Director of the Hallé Orchestra in 1899,
and directed the first concert of the newly formed London Symphony Orchestra in
1904. Richter led the first performances of Brahms’s Symphonies Nos. 2 and 3, and
Elgar’s Enigma Variations and The Dream of Gerontius.
16 Christopher Fifield, True Artist and True Friend: A Biography of Hans Richter
(Oxford, 1993), p. 220; italics in original.
17 The reader is referred to the published vocal score by Stanley Lucas, Weber & Co.,
which may be obtained in photographic duplication from the RCM. The title page
reads as follows: “The / Three Holy Children / An Oratorio / In Two Parts, The
Words Selected From / The Holy Scriptures / The Music Composed by / C. Villiers
Stanford, / Op. 22 / Pianoforte Arrangement By / The Composer / London, / Stanley
Lucas, Weber & Co. / 84, New Bond Street, & 325, Oxford Street, W. / Orchestral
Score & Parts To Be Had On Application. [Second Edition, 1885?]” The Preface
reads as follows: The words of this Oratorio have been selected in the main from
those portions of the Old Testament and of the Apocrypha which relate to the period
of the Captivity of the Jews under Nebuchadnezzar; the most important exception
being the version of a hymn to Merodach (Bel) from an Assyrian inscription. It has
been thought better to leave the words of Scripture without alteration, even where
that course involved an alternation of direct speech and narrative, as in the case of
the opening chorus and of the choruses which describe the king’s anger and the
kindling of the furnace. For the sake of compression, a combination of the Song
of the Three Children and of the 148th Psalm (its probable prototype) has been
employed for the final chorus. The Metronome marks are to be considered only as
an approximate indication of the tempi: they are not intended unduly to hamper the
discretion and feeling of the Conductor. The Composer has to acknowledge with
much gratitude the kind assistance and valuable suggestions he has received in the
compilation of the book from the Very Rev. the Dean of Chester, the Rev. Canon
Percy Hudson, and Mr. H.F. Wilson, of Trinity College, Cambridge; he wishes also
to express his thanks to Mr. Speed for his design for the title-page of the score.
Cambridge, February, 1885.
18 The RCM catalogues the autograph in the following manner: “STANFORD, Charles
Villiers / The Three holy children: oratorio / 347 pp. Full score. Autograph.”
19 On page 149, Stanford indicates that he completed Part I on 2 December 1884. The
verso of page 149 is unused. On page 347, Stanford indicates that he finished Part 2
on 10 February 1885. It reads: “C.V. Stanford / finished at / Cambridge / Feb 10th.
1885 / Laus Deo!” Page 347 is blank. Timings are inscribed for each part, as well:
on page 149, “45 m”; on page 347, “1.hr 3”.
20 The British Library catalogue description is as follows: MS Mus. 901–902.
CHARLES VILLIERS STANFORD MANUSCRIPTS. Vols. VI–VII. ‘The Three
Holy Children’ (words from the Holy Bible (Book of Daniel, Psalms 137 and 74,
and the Benedicite), [op.22]; [1885]. Full score in ink, on 22 stave paper. Copy in
two hands. Dedicated to Queen Victoria. Scored for soloists, chorus, and orchestra
comprising flutes, oboes, clarinets, bassoons, horns, trumpets, trombones, tubas,
timpani and strings with organ. With the previous publishers’ stamps of Stanley
Lucas, Weber & Co. and Boosey & Co. on the front end-paper, fly-leaf and
opening folio. Vocal score published by Stanley Lucas, Weber & Co. in 1885 and
by Boosey & Co. in 1899. First performed at the Birmingham Festival, 28 Aug.
1885, conducted by Hans Richter. See Rodmell, pp. 114–17; Dibble, pp. 164–8.
MS Mus. 901. CHARLES VILLIERS STANFORD MANUSCRIPTS. Vol. VI. Part
1. Copy. With performance markings in pencil and some occasional red and blue
crayon markings. With a list of corrections to the score on ff. iv–v. ff. v + 75. 350
× 274mm. Half leather with publishers’ (Boosey) paper label on the front board
and gilt lettering on the backstrip. [Boosey & Co. has been marked through and
C.V. Stanford written above it. Also, it is obvious that these two manuscripts were
used as conductor’s performance scores.] MS Mus. 902. CHARLES VILLIERS

STANFORD MANUSCRIPTS. Vol. VII. Part 2. Copy in two hands. Some marginal
extensions and with the addition of an organ part, in red ink, in the lower margins
of ff. 63v–67. With some pastedowns partly correcting the score and partly cutting
various bars; with one pastedown obscuring the score, f. 81r, with a note ‘here copy
from new Score.’ With additional stave lines drawn at the head of ff. 15v–16r for
the piccolo part. ff. ii + 107. 353 × 271mm. Half leather with publishers’ (Boosey)
paper label on the front board and gilt lettering on the backstrip. [Again this has the
Boosey & Co. name marked through and C.V. Stanford written above it.]
21 According to Hudson, his search for Stanford’s original manuscripts shows “that
[Stanford] was … an indefatigable copyist of his own works—presumably for
the needs of performance and/or publication—and that many works exist, for
example, in autograph full and vocal scores, in arrangements for reduced or varied
combinations, and even in duplicate full scores.” Hudson, “A Revised and Extended
Catalogue,” p. 107.
22 A new edition of the vocal score (with changes in text and music of Part II) was
published in 1902 by Boosey & Co.; it may be obtained in photographic duplication
from the British Library (#: F.1149k). The title page reads as follows: “The / Three
Holy Children / An Oratorio / In Two Parts, The Words Selected From / The Holy
Scriptures / The Music Composed by / C. Villers Stanford, / Op. 22 / Pianoforte
Arrangement By / The Composer / … / … / Boosey & Co / 295, Regent Street,
London, W. / And / 9, East Seventeenth Street, New York. / New Edition Copyright
1902 by Boosey & Co.”
23 Dibble, Stanford, pp. 165–6.
24 Ibid., p. 166.
25 Ibid.
26 Ibid.
27 “… Elgar jotted on a sketch ‘CHHP Job’ and ‘C.V.S. 3 Children’, references to
C.H.H. Parry’s Job and The Three Holy Children of C.V. Stanford”: Robert
Anderson, Elgar in Manuscript (London, 1990), p. 51. And: “On 8 October 1885
[Elgar] played with the Stockley orchestra in two choral works written for the
Birmingham Festival—which was now under the direction of Hans Richter. One
was a short cantata by Frederick Bridge, who was born in Worcestershire a dozen
years before Edward, educated at Oxford, and was now organist of Westminster
Abbey. The other was an oratorio, The Three Holy Innocents [sic], by the Irish
composer Charles Villiers Stanford—less than five years Edward’s senior, and a
graduate of Trinity College, Cambridge (of which he was now organist) and Hon.
D.Mus. of Oxford.” In Jerrold Northrop Moore, Edward Elgar: A Creative Life
(Oxford, 1984), p. 112.
Chapter 4
Elegiac Ode by Charles Stanford:
An Inspired Setting, Influential Exemplar,
and Filial Tribute
Walt Whitman’s poetry played a major role in the renascence of British music in
the early twentieth century. Composers found in its untrammelling metres an outlet
for musical settings which would seem to be at one with the words. … Although
Vaughan Williams, Holst, and Delius are principally connected with the poetry of
Whitman, they were by no means the only composers of their time to fall under his
spell. (Michael Kennedy)1
Whitman (1819–92) appealed to many composers at about this time, and notable
examples of music based on his poetry include Delius’s Sea Drift, Harty’s Mystic
Trumpeter, Holst’s The Mystic Trumpeter and Dirge for Two Veterans. … Whitman’s
personal brand of humanism, questioning philosophy of life, and first-hand reporting
of the horrors and pity of conflict in the American Civil War, certainly found a
ready response in many composers. Not least of these was Vaughan Williams, who
was not the first or the last young man to have Whitman’s Leaves of Grass as his
constant companion. Before the First World War, …Whitman was all the vogue,
and as early as 1899 W.H. Bell wrote an orchestral Walt Whitman Symphony, and
in the same year Vaughan Williams’s friend Gustav Holst … wrote a Walt Whitman
Overture. But most works ascribed to Whitman were actually settings of his words,
Vaughan Williams’s teacher Charles Villiers Stanford being among the first with his
Elegiac Ode in 1884. (Lewis Foreman)2
Among the First: Whitman and Stanford
The critical importance of Walt Whitman’s poetry in the rebirth of British music
in the early twentieth century has long been recognized by music historians,
who cite as evidence such epochal works as Toward the Unknown Region and
A Sea Symphony by Ralph Vaughan Williams. Written at the zenith of English
choral singing, these early masterpieces on the poems of Whitman made Vaughan
Williams’s reputation. While Michael Kennedy and others have discussed their
significance in the oeuvre of the great English composer, they have also established
that Whitman appealed to many composers of the time who essayed music on his
poetry.3 Of these, Charles Stanford’s setting of a Whitman text for large performing
forces, Elegiac Ode, Op. 21 (1884), was among the first. Despite the fact that
today it is rarely heard and, indeed, largely forgotten, it may have been one of the
models for Vaughan Williams’s novel first (Whitman) symphony.
Jeremy Dibble has suggested that many of the innovations with which Vaughan
Williams is credited—the symphonic traditions, the folk-song and Tudor revivals,
the aspirations for a national opera—find Stanford at their roots. Stanford’s seven
symphonies were essayed vis-à-vis a British symphonic tradition that existed
before the turn of the century; his work as an editor and arranger of folk-song was
recognized before the English Folk-Song Society was created and antedates that of
Vaughan Williams; he was cognizant of Britain’s musical heritage, as represented
by Tallis, Byrd, and Gibbons, and was the first to revive (in 1895) Purcell’s Dido
and Aeneas (Vaughan Williams sang in the chorus); and he must be recognized
“as the first in a line of composers, including Vaughan Williams, to have failed in
their attempts to establish a national opera .…”4 Perhaps it was predictable that
Vaughan Williams should emulate his teacher Stanford for, by the time of the first
performance of Elegiac Ode, the Irishman had become a major driving force in the
creative and interpretative life of British music.
In 1884, at 32 years of age, Stanford (1852–1924) enjoyed a growing national
reputation, emanating from Cambridge University, for his work and achievements.
As the director and conductor (from 1873) of the Cambridge University Musical
Society (CUMS), already his concerts were viewed as remarkable because of his
imaginative programming and the renown of the participants; that is, a significant
number of the compositions were contemporary and received their British or
world premieres there, while national and international artists were featured. As
an example, one can mention the debut of Parry’s symphony “The Cambridge,”
commissioned by Stanford for CUMS, and performed on 12 June 1883 between
first hearings at the university of Schumann’s cantata The Pilgrimage of the Rose,
Op. 112 and Brahms’s Schicksalslied, Op. 54. As the choirmaster-organist at
Trinity College, already he had embarked on a series of inventive organ recitals
that continued to attract enthusiastic audiences and a diversity of guest performers,
and he had completed the Morning, Communion, and Evening Services in B@
(1879) and in A (1880), which served as exemplars for a future generation of
Anglican church composers. Yet these works were only a part of the large oeuvre
of compositions—the list is staggering because he wrote at such an astounding
pace—in his impressive portfolio, including, to name a few, two symphonies
(Symphony No. 1, B@ major, 1879, and Symphony No. 2, “Elegiac,” D minor,
1882) and the operas The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan (1878), Savonarola (1883),
and The Canterbury Pilgrims (1883). As an admired and respected musician and
pedagogue, he had been appointed (in 1883) to the faculty of the Royal College
of Music, as professor of composition and orchestration, and conductor of the
orchestra, and presented for an honorary D.Mus. at Oxford University, an award
acknowledged in Musical Opinion & Music Trade Review by Fuller Maitland,
who praised Stanford’s “mastery of musical form and ease of orchestral writing
which characterize all his larger and more mature works.”5
Elegiac Ode by Charles Stanford 89
In the personal sphere, Stanford was happily married (since 1878); a daughter,
Geraldine, had been born in 1883, and his wife, Jennie, was pregnant with their
second child, Guy. To accommodate his growing family, very shortly he was to
move from Eltham House on the Chesterton Road to a larger home at 10 Harvey
Road, Cambridge, a residence that reflected his professional success as a conductor
and performer, composer and teacher, as well as his domestic needs. However, not
all was golden in Stanford’s life. For example, without private wealth, he was
entirely dependent on his income from employment—his tuition at the RCM and
stipend at Trinity, fees from CUMS, and occasional conducting—and royalties
from his compositions; hence Stanford was always seeking ways to maintain and
increase his earnings, the reality of which was a continual source of exhaustion
and tension. In 1880 the sudden death of his father, John James (born 1810)—a
colorful and dashing character, a lawyer by profession, a singer and cellist by
avocation—affected the composer deeply. Although the older man objected
initially to Charles’s fiancée, caused a protracted engagement, and refused to
attend the wedding, he had reconciled with his son and daughter-in-law before his
final illness. In response, Stanford completed his second symphony (begun August
1879; revised December 1880 and, again, January 1882), which he subtitled
“Elegiac,” as a musical eulogy to him.6
A Ready Response: Provenance and Meaning
As a young man, Stanford may have been introduced to the poetry of Walt
Whitman by one of the learned circle of academic, ecclesiastical, judicial, and
medical notables to whom the doors of his parents’ house in Ireland were open.
Edward Dowden (1843–1913), a professor of English literature and oratory at
Trinity College, Dublin, “acted as Whitman’s chief liaison officer in Ireland by
lecturing about the poet, taking part in discussion groups, introducing the Leaves
[of Grass] to his friends,” and, in time, publishing about him—an article (“The
Poetry of Democracy: Walt Whitman”) for The Westminster Review (July 1871)
and two reviews (of Specimen Days and Collect and Richard M. Bucke’s Walt
Whitman) for The Academy (November 1882 and September 1883, respectively).7
In letters to Whitman, Dowden wrote (23 July 1871) that the poet “has many
readers in Ireland”—he also mentioned that Robert Yelverton Tyrrell, then Regius
Professor of Greek at the University of Dublin, had given a lecture on Leaves of
Grass—all of whom he described subsequently (5 September 1871):
There is a clergyman, who finds his truth halved between John H. Newman and
you. There is a doctor—a man of science, and a mystic—a Quaker, he has had
a wish to write on the subject of your poems, and may perhaps accomplish it.
There is a barrister (an ardent nature, much interested in social and political
principles), he overflows with two authors, Carlyle and yourself. There is a
clergyman (the most sterling piece of manhood I know); he has I daresay taken
you in more thoroughly than any of us, in proportion to his own soundness and
integrity of nature. There is an excellent Greek scholar. There is a woman of
most fine character and powerful intellect. [Hereafter, cognoscenti in England
are mentioned.] Then I know three painters in London, all men of decided
genius, who care very much for all you do (one of them has, I believe, in MS
some study of your poems, which at some time may come to be printed)—and
Nettleship, whom Rossetti knows, and who has printed a book on R. Browning.8
Clearly, Dowden fulfilled in Dublin much the same role for Whitman that William
Michael Rossetti (1829–1919), critic, editor, and translator, did in London. But
the former had become acquainted with Whitman’s poetry through the agency
of Rossetti, who completed an important article, “Walt Whitman’s Poems,” for
The London Chronicle (in July 1867) and published (in 1868) the first book of
Whitman selections in England.
Rossetti’s introduction to Leaves of Grass was almost by accident. A few months
after the almost complete failure of the first edition (1855) to achieve commercial
success or literary recognition in America, Thomas Dixon, a cork cutter of Sunderland,
purchased a copy from an itinerant merchant, James Grinrod, who later fought in the
American Civil War. Dixon forwarded this copy to his friend William Bell Scott, a
minor poet and sculptor and an associate of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, who
presented a copy to Rossetti as a Christmas gift in 1856. The impact of the American
poet on the editor was instantaneous, enduring and profound. Rossetti was so taken
with Leaves of Grass that, immediately, he began discussing it with his friends.9 Yet
it was more than ten years after the reception of Scott’s book that Rossetti’s first
published appraisal of Leaves of Grass appeared in the Chronicle, the significance of
which “can hardly be over-estimated,” for “it resulted in the first English selection,
Rossetti’s own Poems of Walt Whitman (1868).”10
His volume contained about half the poems of the fourth American edition of
the Leaves of Grass (1867) and the original preface, and was distinguished by its
careful prudence; that is, it discreetly omitted the sections of Whitman’s work that
were considered objectionable at the time. The fact that Whitman’s poems were
edited in England by Rossetti, a man recognized and esteemed by the literary
profession, “accounts to a considerable extent for Whitman’s greater fame in Britain
than at home.”11 The erudite Rossetti was the brother of (and custodian of family
manuscripts to) Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830–94) and Dante Gabriel Rossetti
(1828–82), both of whom were closely allied with the Pre-Raphaelite movement,
a coterie of mostly painters who shared an interest in contemporary poetry and an
opposition to certain stale conventions of contemporary academy art. In addition to
the members of this remarkable group, many extraordinary and powerful individuals
came first to know Whitman’s poetry through the Rossetti selection.12
Therefore it was probably Rossetti’s volume that was the provenance of
Stanford’s setting, while the composer’s interest may have been stimulated by
his friendship with (John Richard) Raoul Couturier de Versan (born 1848), whom
he visited frequently (from 1867) at Trinity College, Dublin and, later, with the
Tennysons: Hallam, the son of the poet laureate, at Trinity College, Cambridge,
where the composer had migrated from Queens’ College in 1873, and Alfred, who
corresponded with Whitman in the 1870s, at Farringford (perhaps in 1879). Lord
Tennyson had been known to recite to acquaintances long passages from Leaves
of Grass, and Hallam reported that his father said to him: “Walt neglects form
altogether, but there is a fine spirit breathing through his writings.”13
To be sure, Whitman found a ready response in Stanford, a devotee of opera
from his boyhood, who must have been attracted to the design of Whitman’s free-
verse forms, which owe much to the genre—its structure, its music, and the flow
of the lines across the pages of the libretto. Jeremy Dibble writes that “Stanford’s
attraction to Whitman’s poem was unquestionably encouraged by the free nature and
sweep of the author’s prose,” and adds that “one suspects that the visionary tenor of
the text had much in common with the ‘ewiger Klarheit’ of Hölderlin’s verse used
by Brahms in Das Schicksalslied …, a work Stanford greatly admired” and had
conducted as early as 1877.
Though the four-movement structure of Stanford’s Elegiac Ode and the ternary
design of Brahms’s work differ markedly in detail, there seems little doubt that the
radiant orchestral prelude and first choral section of Das Schicksalslied and its rapt
“wordless” recapitulation for orchestra alone formed the inspirational focus (albeit
subject to reinterpretation) for the outer sections of Stanford’s musical scheme.
This is particularly conspicuous in the celestial orchestral epilogue which recalls
material from the introduction and opening chorus. These similarities aside,
however, Stanford’s ode evinces a quite different symphonic and tonal argument.14
One can cite, too, another musical influence on Stanford: Mendelssohn, for there
is an echo of the introduction of Lobgesang, in its chord progressions and with its
loping dotted-eighth- and sixteenth-note rhythm, in the second section of the first
movement of Elegiac Ode. Such examples bring to mind Stanford’s thoughts on
writing music, which later he codified in Musical Composition: A Short Treatise for
Students (1920):
Too many students are afraid, from a natural desire to be original, to copy the examples
which the great composers provide; but if they wish to get at the root of the methods
in which their predecessors successfully worked, they must make up their minds to
do so. … A musician … can take a movement by a great composer for a model, but
confine his imitation to copying the shape and the trend of the modulations, while
using his own themes and rhythmical figures to carry out the design. … The composer
writes his own work on the lines of his predecessor’s model.15
At the same time, the use of the last seven verses, beginning with the line
“Come, lovely and soothing Death,” of section 14 of “When Lilacs Last in the
Dooryard Bloom’d” from Memories of President Lincoln, could have been evoked
by Tennyson’s In Memoriam, from which Stanford prefaced stanza 70 on his
“Elegiac” tribute to his father, the four verses of the cantos corresponding with the
movements of the symphony:
I cannot see the features right,

When on the gloom I strive to paint
The face I know; the hues are faint
And mix with hollow masks of night;
Cloud-towers by ghostly masons wrought,

A gulf that ever shuts and gapes,
A hand that points, and pallèd shapes
In shadowy thoroughfares of thought;
And crowds that stream from yawning doors,

And shoals of pucker’d faces drive;
Dark bulks that tumble half alive,
And lazy lengths on boundless shores;
Till all at once beyond the will

I hear a wizard music roll,
And thro’ a lattice on the soul
Looks thy fair face and makes it still.
In Whitman’s text, the purpose is to praise death, which the poet does in a mood
of hushed consecration, and then, although death is called a “dark Mother,” it is
presented like a bride. The symbols must have appealed to Stanford: the “powerful
western fallen star,” representing the assassinated Lincoln, might have become his
father; the lilac, denoting rebirth or resurrection, perhaps his hope for a hereafter;
and the hidden bird, signifying the poet and the power of poetry, Stanford and
his music. The poem is a kind of elegy, “a lyric melodrama in which everything
personal, except the loneliness of the poet, is made abstract and impersonal and
in which a mourning society is seen … on the one hand as fragmented groups
of people and on the other as an abstraction.”16 But this is to forget what is more
important, the rare poetic qualities of Whitman’s language:
When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,

And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,

Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.
Consequently, Elegiac Ode could have been another musical offering by Stanford
to his late father.
A reviewer for the Musical Times thought that Stanford’s choice of text was
eccentric—“we must say that it is long since we met with anything more eccentric
than the words which Dr Stanford has selected in his ode”17—signaling his
discomfort with, in Paul Rodmell’s words, “Whitman’s characterization of Death
as a fine, benevolent and powerful female, whose approach was to be relished and
saluted as she brought peace and calm after the hectic pace of life.” And “although
the Victorians were used to dealing with death,” Rodmell continues, “they were
unfamiliar with this laudatory approach.”18
These comments underscore how revolutionary was Stanford’s idea of setting
Whitman’s poem, which, according to Dibble, “occurred to him as far back as
1873, though it was not until 1881 that he wrote the first chorus (in much the
form that it was later published) and sketched the two movements with soloists.”19
Inasmuch as Stanford dated almost all of his manuscripts, often each movement,
together with a record of the location,20 further information might be found by
examining the autograph manuscripts of Elegiac Ode housed at the British Library,
of which there are two: MSS Mus 899 and 900.21
MS Mus 899 is the autograph vocal score. Written on 12-stave paper, it is bound
in black cloth with gilt lettering on the front cover. The British Library catalogue
describes the item as consisting of v + 24 folios; in actuality, the sequence is i, ii, iii
+ 24 + iv, v; that is, 24 folios of manuscript with five blank leaves. The foliations
were added by the conservation staff on fols iv, iir, iiir, 1–24 (on the recto sides
only)—there is a blank, unlabeled folio between fols 24 and iv—ivr, and vr. Folio i
is the inside of the front cover, whereas fol. v is the inside back cover. The composer
paginated the recto and verso of his manuscript, that is pages 1–47 (fols 1–24), and
music is found on the front and back sides of the pages with the exception of page
8 (fol. 7v) and page 47 (fol. 24v). The former is annotated by a large zigzag line
(from the top left to the bottom right of the page) and a hand-and-finger drawing
(at the top right corner) pointing to the commencement of the second movement
on page 15 (fol. 8r), the first system (two staves) of which has been cancelled by a
similar zigzag line through it. Stanford used black ink, but rehearsal letterings and
the foregoing annotations are in purple crayon. The engraver marked off the score
in pencil—the number of systems per page is determined and each is inscribed as
1, 2, 3, and so on—customarily done as a guide to plate content. For the choral
movements, Stanford’s method was to indicate clefs and key signatures at the
beginning (first system) of each verso only—with the exception of Movement I,
pages 2–3 (fols 1v and 2r) (which feature two systems per page, with each system
given clefs and key signatures), pages 4–5 (fols 2v and 3r) (where clefs and key
signatures are indicated at the beginning of each page), and Movement III, pages
22–3 (fols 11v and 12r) (where, as with the preceding, clefs and key signatures
are added at the commencement of each page)—or when there is a key change or
new section. Stanford’s calligraphy is legible but not beautiful; rather, it has the
appearance of being practical; that is, the composer worked quickly to produce
scores that could be used to create printed copies. The completion date of the
entire work, July 1884, is indicated at its conclusion (on fol. 24r), though no other
dates are included.
MS Mus. 900 is the full score. Written on 20-stave paper, the manuscript is
bound in black cloth with the publishers’ label (“The Property of Boosey & Co.,”
followed by a notice on annotating or abbreviating the score) affixed to the front
board. Here, too, the British Library staff numbered the folios as v + 54—they are
fol. i (the affixed label), ii (verso of front cover), iii (blank leaf), iv (non-autograph
performance comments on a paper fragment, inserted and unbound), v (blank leaf)
+ 54 folios—though Stanford paginated the recto and verso of each folio as pages
1–97 (and music is found on each of the pages he numbered excluding a second
p. 97). Stanford’s method in the full score was to indicate clefs and key signatures
at the beginning of each verso only, with the exception of pages 6–7 (fols 3v–4r),
or when there is a key change or new section. Complete instrumentation is shown
on pages 1 and 41 only—that is, fols ir and 22r—which correspond to the start
of the first and third movements (as follows): Flauti, Oboi, Clarinetti in A/B@,
Fagotti e contra fagotti, Corni I and II in F and Corni III and IV in D, Trombi in D,
Posannes (Alt, Tenor, Bass), 2 Tuba, Tympani in D, A, and B@, Cymbals, Triangle,
Harp, Violins I and II, Viole, Soprano Solo, Baritone Solo, Chorus (Soprano, Alto,
Tenor, Bass), Celli, and Bass. Stanford himself used black ink, but there are added
rehearsal letters in blue crayon or pencil, while performance markings appear in
pencil (conductor’s cues in the main) with a single instance of red ink on fol.
48r (p. 89): a drawing of a hand and pointing finger and the subsequent words
“contra fagotti” are found on the last three measures before the Adagio molto (15
measures after Gg). Inasmuch as this autograph was used as a hire score, it cannot
be assumed that the annotations are Stanford’s alone. Lastly, it is undated.
Elegiac Ode: The Music Described
“By Festival commission standards of the time the Elegiac Ode is refreshing, not
least because of Stanford’s choice of Whitman’s verse,” is the opinion of Rodmell.
“Although his setting is prosaic in places and is cast in the shadow of the oratorio
tradition, it also includes much skilful writing and some inspired passages which
raise it well above the standard of many contemporaneous works.”22 Elegiac
Ode consists of four large movements: an opening chorus, a baritone solo, a
soprano solo with female chorus, and a final chorus that features a slow section,
an extended fugue, and a concluding section in which material from the opening
chorus recurs.23 Stanford’s orchestration is highly imaginative, especially his
writing for the horn in the first and last movements of the work (as well as the
coda)—it carries an opulent thematic idea in the outer sections of the former, and
in the concluding part of the introduction and the central episode of the fugue in
the latter—and for the wind and harp in the third.
The first movement, using the first and second verses of the text, begins with
a 44-measure orchestral introduction, in D minor, alla breve, and Lento (half-note
= 56), pervaded by undulating triplets (con sordini strings), though the first 20
measures are set almost completely on the dominant pedal tone, A, with secondary
diminished-seventh chords tonicizing briefly and repeatedly D minor, G minor,
and A minor (Example 4.1, the initial sixteen measures of the introduction) (vocal
score p. 2; MS vocal score fol. 1r; MS full score fols 1r–1v). The long-awaited
resolution of this first sub-section (in D minor) occurs at measure 21, rehearsal
letter A (vocal score p. 3; MS vocal score fol. 1r; MS full score fol. 3r); but the
second sub-section very quickly moves to the key of B@ major (and, then, through
an harmonically unstable passage) before reaching a prolongation of A dominant-
seventh, which prepares for the entrance of the chorus in a radiant D major (vocal
score pp. 2–3; MS vocal score fol. 1v; MS full score fol. 3r).
Come, lovely and soothing Death,

Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
Sooner or later, delicate Death.
The initial choral section continues the triplet figure in the accompaniment while
the chorus sings the first line of the text, “Come, lovely and soothing Death,”
(“come” being reiterated several times) in a homophonic paragraph that oscillates
between D and G majors (G major is frequently tonicized, though a root-position
G major chord does not appear until the first measure of the vocal score p. 5; third
measure of the MS vocal score fol. 2r; fifth measure of MS full score fol. 3v)
(Example 4.2). The next fragment of text, “Undulate round the world, serenely
arriving, arriving, / In the day, in the night,” is set imitatively (A/B/S/T), but at
“to all, to each, / Sooner or later, delicate Death” the various strands of the chorus
come together again in homophony. An impressive crescendo of dissonant block
chords climaxes, pianissimo, on the first syllable of “delicate,” over a V  /@II
(that is, B@/d/f/a@ of E@–g–b@), after which the remainder of the word and “Death,
delicate, delicate Death” effect a return to D major (vocal score pp. 4–7, from
rehearsal letter B; MS vocal score fols 1v–3r; MS full score fols 3r–5r).
Praised be the fathomless universe,

For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,
And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise!
For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death.
The second verse, with the exception of the last line, is set to an Allegro
maestoso (half-note = 96) section in B@ major. This musical paragraph is
constructed of permutations built on the compositional material used to set the
first three lines of the verse: (i) exultant choral interjections, forte, of “Praised”
(the first, BII/BI/AII/AI/T/S, then chordal), “praised” and “praised” (yet
Example 4.1 Elegiac Ode by Charles Stanford, introduction (vocal score; Stanley
Lucas, 1885), p. 2
Example 4.2 Elegiac Ode by Charles Stanford, first movement, choral entrance
(vocal score; Stanley Lucas, 1885), p. 4
again) leading to “be the fathomless universe”; (ii) a quick, staccato pattern
set (imitatively at its commencement) to “for life and joy”; and (iii) a longer,
smoother gesture (introduced by soprano) of “and for love, sweet love,” all of
which are underpinned by a repetitious dotted-eighth- and sixteenth-note rhythmic
pattern in the accompaniment (vocal score pp. 8–11; MS vocal score fols 3r–5r;
MS full score fols 5v–8r). Impressively replete is the orchestration before and after
rehearsal letter H in preparation for the last line, “For the sure-enwinding arms of
cool-enfolding Death,” which returns Tempo primo to the D major, triplet posture
of the opening (vocal score p. 15; MS vocal score fol. 6r; MS full score fol. 11v)
to end with rich and lovely harmony to the words “cool-enfolding Death” (vocal
score p. 17; MS vocal score fol. 7r; MS full score fols 13r–13v).
Dark Mother always gliding near with soft feet,

Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?
Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,
I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.
Approach, strong deliveress,

When it is so, when thou hast taken them I joyously sing the dead,
Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,
Laved in the flood of thy bliss O Death!
The second movement utilizes the third and fourth verses of the text and
is composed entirely for baritone solo, in B@ major, ³¼ and Allegretto con moto
(quarter-note = 120). The accompaniment is made up of rapid sixteenth-note
figuration—at first designated for the violas, then later given to the violins—
against which the longer, molto legato, melody is silhouetted, making great use of
repeated fragments of the text (vocal score p. 18; MS vocal score fol. 8r; MS full
score fols 14r–14v). Initially, the orchestration is delightfully chamber-like, but
subsequently it becomes powerfully full and robust. The first half of the aria ends
in F major, the key of the second half, which commences with strong acclamations
of “Approach, strong deliveress!” (vocal score p. 20; MS vocal score fol. 9r; MS
full score fol. 17r). Thereafter, the music moves notably through the keys of G@
major and A@ minor before returning, in splendid fashion, to B@ major. “Lost in the
loving floating ocean of thee” is meant to be declaimed passionately to harmonies
that fluctuate over a dominant pedal (vocal score pp. 21–3; MS vocal score fols 9r–
9v; MS full score fols 17v–19r). This phrase links with an harmonically disruptive
one buttressing “Laved in the flood of thy bliss,” chanted three times (the third
of which returns to B@ major, via a Iþ¼ chord, on “flood”), which precipitates “O
Death!,” a magnificent climax that necessitates a twenty-measure postlude to
discharge the cumulative melodic and harmonic energy. The aria, however, ends
not on the tonic, but on a chord of the dominant seventh in preparation for the
subsequent movement (from letter O: vocal score p. 24 passim; MS vocal score
fol. 9v passim; MS full score fol. 19v).
From me to thee glad serenades,

Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee,
And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting,
And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.
Dispensing with the fifth verse of text, the third movement, in G major, ³¼
and Andante grazioso (quarter-note = 104), commences via a V chord with an
introduction of twenty-one measures, L’istesso tempo, ³¼, in G minor. Essentially,
the profile of this movement is that of a soprano soloist accompanied by a choir of
soprano, alto I and alto II; that is, a melody in the top-most voice is (i) introduced,
then repeated by the chorus, and (ii) harmonized or embellished by the three
lower, and subservient, voices. It features such wonderfully vivid scoring, the harp
especially conspicuous, together with the clever addition of cymbals (to be hit
with a drumstick) and triangle. The music for the first two lines, “From me to thee
glad serenades, / Dances for thee I propose saluting thee, adornments and feastings
for thee,” is repeated in a modified version (vocal score pp. 26–8; MS vocal score
fols 10v–11v; MS full score fols 22r–25v) (Example 4.3) to round off a movement
that concludes with a modulating postlude of twenty-two measures, the last two
of which (in E@ major) initiate the accompaniment pattern of the succeeding
movement (vocal score p. 33; MS vocal score fol. 13v; MS full score fol. 30r).
The night in silence under many a star,

The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know,
And the soul turning to thee O vast and well-veil’d Death,
And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.
Over the tree-tops I float thee a song,

Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide,
Over the dense-pack’d cities all and the teeming wharves and ways,
I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee O Death.
The last movement, in E@ major, ¦¼ and Tranquillo (quarter-note = 80),

distributes the final two verses of the text. The first half of the movement, set to the
sixth verse, is dominated by choral homophony underscored by pulsating, rippling
triplets (vocal score p. 35; MS vocal score fol. 14v; MS full score fols 32r–32v).
The harmonic exploration of this paragraph is impressive, as is the robust fugal
writing of the second half of the movement, set to the last verse, in D major, Ý¾–³¼,
Allegretto maestoso ma con moto (dotted quarter-note = 88), attained by an eleven-
measure interlude (vocal score pp. 40–41; MS vocal score fols 16r–16v; MS full
score fols 36r–37r). This paragraph is vast, for the fugal subject is protracted. After
an exhaustive and zealous treatment of the melodic material with a requisite stretto
(vocal score pp. 41–56; MS vocal score fols 17r–22v; MS full score fols 37r–47r),
the choral homophony at rehearsal letter Gg (vocal score bottom of p. 56; MS
vocal score top of fol. 22v; MS full score bottom of fol. 47r), underpinned by a
Example 4.3 Elegiac Ode by Charles Stanford, third movement, beginning (vocal
score; Stanley Lucas, 1885), p. 26
statement of the subject in the orchestra, is eminently appropriate. This passage

culminates in a fortissimo choral shout on “Death,” which initiates a rhapsodic
six-measure orchestral segue marked Adagio molto (vocal score p. 58; MS vocal
score fol. 23r; MS full score fol. 48r). Subsequently, a discursive thirty-measure
interlude (þ¼, Lento come al primo), beautifully reiterating themes from the first
movement, balances the opening of the work and leads to the conclusion: an
abbreviated restatement of “Come, come lovely and soothing Death!” (vocal score
pp. 58–60; MS vocal score fols 23r–23v; MS full score fols 48r–52v).
An Inspired Setting, Influential Exemplar, and Filial Tribute
Vis-à-vis the intriguing topic of choral antecedents, Stanford’s Elegiac Ode

could have served as another exemplar for Vaughan Williams’s A Sea Symphony,
because a superficial resemblance to it is apparent from our summary. Elegiac Ode
is a four-movement work, though of much smaller dimensions, for baritone and
soprano soli, large chorus and orchestra, which uses a deeply moving Whitman
excerpt for its text. The first movement is in a D major/minor mode, the second
for baritone solo in B@ major (not an E mode as in A Sea Symphony), the third in
a G major/minor mode (though scored for soprano and women’s chorus), and the
fourth movement for chorus, displaying a long, subdued, rhetorical passage for
orchestra alone, commences in E@ major (but terminates in D major).
Stanford had been introduced to Whitman’s poetry in Ireland, at home and at
Trinity College, in the late 1860s; at Cambridge, where a close friend at Trinity
College was Tennyson’s son, Hallam, his interest in the poet had increased to the
point that he considered a setting as early as 1873; but it was the death of his father
in 1880 that served as the catalyst for the composition. In the aftermath of this
sudden and unexpected event, the composer completed his second symphony and
began his choral work (influenced by Brahms’s Schicksalslied and Mendelssohn’s
Lobgesang); a connection between the two is apparent from the appellations he
gave them, “Elegiac” and “Elegiac Ode.” On the former, it is understandable that
Stanford would choose to quote words by the greatest poet of his day, Alfred, Lord
Tennyson; for the latter, his selection of lines by Walt Whitman was inspired. For
in authoring Elegiac Ode, Stanford produced one of his most imaginative choral
utterances, which a revival would demonstrate: a progenitor to many works of the
early twentieth century, and another tribute to his father.
Notes
1 Michael Kennedy, The Works of Ralph Vaughan Williams (London, 1964), p. 82.
2 Lewis Foreman, “Restless Explorations: Articulating Many Visions,” in Lewis
Foreman (ed.), Vaughan Williams in Perspective (London, 1998), p. 5.
3 See, e.g., Foreman, “Restless Explorations,” p. 5 passim; Kennedy, p. 82 passim;
and Stephen Town, “Full of Fresh Thoughts: Vaughan Williams, Whitman and A
Sea Symphony,” in Byron Adams and Robin Wells (eds), Vaughan Williams Essays
(Aldershot, 2003).
4 Jeremy Dibble, “Parry, Stanford and Vaughan Williams: The Creation of Tradition,”
in Lewis Foreman (ed.), Vaughan Williams in Perspective (London, 1998), pp.
38–9. That Stanford was unsuccessful had little to do with his attempt. He went
to Germany with his first opera, The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan, “and by his
own advocacy, persistence, tact and cultured savoir faire” convinced Franz Liszt
and Hans Von Bülow to help him. “After a campaign of two years or more” he
witnessed a performance of the work at the Opera House at Hanover. Herbert
Howells, “Charles Villiers Stanford: An Address at His Centenary,” Proceedings of
the Royal Musical Association, 80 (1952–53): 19–31.
5 J.A. Fuller Maitland, “Musicians of the Time: No. VI—Mr. C. Villiers Stanford,”
in Musical Opinion & Music Trade Review (1 December 1883): 119. In the
penultimate paragraph, he wrote: “[Stanford] possesses the rare gift of expressing
his ideas in a clear and intelligible form, so that his compositions are as far removed
from obscurity on the one hand as they are from triviality on the other.” His final
paragraph acknowledged “the honorary degree of Mus. Doc. [that] was conferred
upon him by the University of Oxford.”
6 See: Jeremy Dibble, Charles Villiers Stanford: Man and Musician (Oxford, 2002),
chapters 3–5; Charles Villiers Stanford, Pages from an Unwritten Diary (London,
1914); and Harry Plunket Greene, Charles Villiers Stanford (London, 1935).
7 Harold Blodgett, Walt Whitman in England (Ithaca, NY, 1934), p. 54. The reception
and influence of Walt Whitman’s poetry in the British Isles during his lifetime have
been superbly treated in Blodgett’s book. The following are discussed in chapter
order: I. Introduction; II. William Michael Rossetti; III. Edward Dowden; IV. John
Addington Symonds; V. Robert Buchanan; VI. Anne Gilchrist; VII. Swinburne;
VIII. Tennyson; IX. Other Poets; X. The Major Prophets; XI. The Professors and the
Journalists; XII. Carpenter, Ellis, and the “Bolton College”; and XIII. Conclusion.
Regarding Dowden, see pp. 42–57; 54. Additionally, Edward Dowden, “The Poetry
of Democracy: Walt Whitman,” Westminster Review, xcvi (July 1871): 33–68;
reprinted in Dowden, Studies in Literature (London, 1878); Dowden, “Review
of Specimen Days and Collect,” The Academy, xxii (18 November 1882): 357–9;
Dowden, “Review of Richard M. Bucke’s Walt Whitman,” The Academy, xxiv
(8 September 1883): 156; Dowden, Letters of Edward Dowden (London, 1914);
and Fragments from Old Letters, E.D. to E.D.W. (London, 1914).
8 Blodgett, pp. 54–5.
9 Gay Wilson Allen, The New Walt Whitman Handbook (New York, 1986), p. 270.
10 Blodgett, pp. 20–22.
11 Allen, pp. 10–11.
12 The Rossetti selection was reprinted in England in 1886, 1892, 1895, 1910, and
1920 by Chatto and Windus, London. Allen, pp. 270–71.
13 William S. Kennedy, Reminiscences of Walt Whitman (Paisley, London, and

Philadelphia, 1896), p. 84, cited in Blodgett, p. 127; and Hallam Tennyson, Memoir
of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, ii (London, 1897), p. 424, cited in Blodgett, pp. 127–8.
14 Dibble, Stanford, p. 159.
15 The complete quotation is as follows: “Too many students are afraid, from a natural
desire to be original, to copy the examples which the great composers provide; but if
they wish to get at the root of the methods in which their predecessors successfully
worked, they must make up their minds to do so. Here, again, the parallel of the
art of painting comes in, where students can get the best possible tuition from
masters greater than any living by copying their pictures, and so getting at the root
of their methods. A musician has one great advantage over a painter in this branch
of study; for he can take a movement by a great composer for a model, but confine
his imitation to copying the shape and the trend of the modulations, while using
his own themes and rhythmical figures to carry out the design. The painter merely
copies out another man’s complete work. The composer writes his own work on the
lines of his predecessor’s model. Except to a heaven-born genius, such as Schubert,
this system of studying form is the only possible one for the all-important control
of shape and proportion. It might even, without blasphemy, be said that Schubert
would have been less given to diffuseness if he had trained himself systematically,
which we know that he did not; for his ‘heavenly lengths,’ as Schumann termed
them, are only carried off by the wealth of invention which they contain. Beethoven
often writes at as great a length as he (witness the Sonata in B flat, Op. 106), but his
subjects, episodes, and developments all increase in proportion to each other and in
proportion to the length of the scheme; and just as a man of perfect proportions will
not look like a giant, even if he is six feet six, so another of six feet two, whose legs
are too long for his body, will give the impression of abnormal height. It is an almost
cruel task to write a movement, bar by bar, modulation by modulation, figure by
figure, exactly the same in all respects, save theme, as a work by another composer;
but it is the only way to get at the root of the matter, and it must be faced.” Charles
Villiers Stanford, Musical Composition: A Short Treatise for Students (London,
1920), pp. 78–9.
16 Richard Chase, “Walt Whitman 1819–1892,” in Leonard Unger (ed.), American
Writers: A Collection of Literary Biographies, vol. 4 (New York, 1974), pp.
347–8. The first appearance of “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d”
was as an appendix to Drum-Taps, a small book of poems published in 1865 and,
later, incorporated into the fourth edition of Leaves of Grass (1867), upon which
Rossetti’s first British edition of 1868 was based. There, both the “Drum-Taps” and
Lincoln poems were placed at the end, still in the separate pagination given them
when they were published by themselves, whereas in the fifth edition of 1871–72
the “Drum-Taps” and the Lincoln poems were placed in a permanent position.
James E. Miller, Jr., Walt Whitman, updated edition (Boston, MA, 1990), pp. 37–8.
17 Musical Times, 15 October 1884, pp. 633–4.
18 Paul Rodmell, Charles Villiers Stanford (Aldershot, 2002), p. 110.
19 Dibble, Stanford, p. 158. In an email communication to the author on
16 October 2007, Dibble wrote: “The performance of the ‘Elegiac Ode’ was in fact
given by Stanford and the Leeds Philharmonic Choir on 21 November 1900 with
the Hallé Orchestra and a choir of 320 singers conducted by Stanford himself. The
note in the programme says the following: ‘The idea of setting a portion of Walt
Whitman’s Burial Hymn for President Lincoln to music occurred to the composer
in 1873, and assumed various forms until in 1881 the first chorus was written much
as it stands now, and the two following numbers sketched. The work was finally
completed in 1884 for the Norwich Festival of that year.’”
20 Ibid., p. viii.
21 The British Library purchased the Stanford manuscripts formerly housed there as
part of Loan 84. The collection has been catalogued as MSS Mus. 896–922. The
British Library description is as follows: MS Mus. 899–900. CHARLES VILLIERS
STANFORD MANUSCRIPTS. Vols. IV–V. ‘Elegiac Ode’ (words from ‘President
Lincoln’s Burial Hymn’ by Walt Whitman), op. 21; 1884. Autograph. Scored for
soprano and baritone soli, chorus, and orchestra comprising flutes, oboes, clarinets,
bassoons, horns, trumpets, trombones, tubas, timpani and strings with optional
harp. First published as a vocal score by Stanley Lucas, Weber & Co. in 1884.
First performed at the Norwich Festival, 15 Oct. 1884, conducted by the composer.
Two volumes. See Rodmell, p. 109; Dibble, pp. 158–60. Two volumes. MS Mus.
899. CHARLES VILLIERS STANFORD MANUSCRIPTS. Vol. IV. Vocal score
in ink, on 12 stave paper. With performance letterings in purple crayon; marked up
in pencil by the engraver. With the previous publishers’ stamps of Stanley Lucas,
Weber & Co. and Boosey & Co. on almost every folio. ff. v + 24. 334 × 260mm.
Cloth with gilt lettering on the front board. MS Mus. 900. CHARLES VILLIERS
STANFORD MANUSCRIPTS. Vol. V. Full score in ink, on 20 stave paper. With
performance letterings in blue crayon and pencil and performance markings
in pencil; also non-autograph note of performance comments on f. iv. With the
previous publishers’ stamps of Stanley Lucas, Weber & Co. and Boosey & Co. on
the front end-paper, fly-leaf and opening folio. ff. v + 54. 339 × 260mm. Cloth with
publishers’ (Boosey) paper on the front board.”
22 Rodmell, p. 110.
23 Charles Villiers Stanford, Elegiac Ode, Op. 21, for Baritone and Soprano Soli,
Chorus and Orchestra; vocal score (London: Stanley Lucas, Weber & Co.,
[1885], plate number S.L.W. & Co. 2201), 61 pp. Bodleian Library shelf mark
(Bod. Mus.50d2). Title page reads: “Elegiac Ode, / The Words From / President
Lincoln’s / Burial Hymn, / By / Walt Whitman, / The Music Composed By / C.
Villiers Stanford.” The complete poetic excerpt precedes the music, titled “FROM
PRESIDENT LINCOLN’S BURIAL HYMN,” succeeded by the seven verses. The
last seven verses articulate into four large movements, each of which is connected
to the next by (i) a single note (e.g. between the first and second movements),
(ii) a modulating passage (e.g. between the second and third movements), or (iii)
the commencement of compositional material utilized in the subsequent movement
(e.g. between the third and fourth movements).
Chapter 5
Flos Campi by Ralph Vaughan Williams:
“From Raw Intimations to Homogeneous
Experience” 1
The manuscripts of [Ralph Vaughan Williams] form an unparalleled record of the

composition process at various levels. … They illuminate the published versions
now heard by their revelation of first, second and third intentions, the modification
of which frequently lends fresh meaning to what are now familiar and perhaps less
noticeable touches. … [The composer] has left behind him, for the many to see for
themselves, a historical documentary record of the restless but propulsive quality
of thinking in sound …, and of his sturdy, resolute quest for the right phrase, the
proper context and the true conclusion. (A.E.F. Dickinson)2
The Vaughan Williams Literature and Autograph Collection
It was A.E.F. Dickinson who first recognized the immense significance of the Ralph
Vaughan Williams Collection of autograph manuscripts deposited in the British
Library in the 1960s.3 Yet sustained work on Vaughan Williams’s manuscripts and
compositional process was not undertaken until the 1980s, and published writings
did not appear until the end of that decade.4
Important catalysts to such work may have been the reissues of the authorized
life and works volumes5 and the Ralph Vaughan Williams Fellowship, established
in 1985 by the Carthusian Trust and Charterhouse School, which enabled North
American scholars to carry out research projects on the composer in the UK.
For, thereafter, numerous texts of diverse types were released with increasing
regularity (examples of these are listed below with the initial publication of its kind
mentioned first followed by other, later volumes, if any, in the same category): book-
length studies,6 sourcebook,7 iconographies,8 multi-author essays,9 single-work
explications,10 and primary biographical commentary.11 As a result, today there is
a significant corpus of systematic research on Vaughan Williams and his oeuvre.12
Most of these texts present new research into the biographical sources and
subject selected examples of Vaughan Williams’s music to close analysis, using
what may be called pluralistic methods. More importantly, they mine the rich,
and virtually untouched, vein of the enormous autograph manuscript collection
in the British Library.13
The Ralph Vaughan Williams Collection is extraordinary by any definition,

because it is one of the largest extant accumulations of a major composer’s
autographs. There are artifacts from every phase of Vaughan Williams’s creative
life, along with published and unpublished music of every genre, and each stage of
composition is represented for almost all of the important works—sketches, drafts,
penultimate versions, autograph full scores, copyist scores, and published full
scores with holographic emendations. Such a magisterial collection is invaluable
to the scholar, because the autographs are revelatory—Vaughan Williams was a
very physical composer who dashed his music onto the page, writing quickly and
almost illegibly, splattering ink, crossing out measures or pasting over unwanted
passages, erasing pencil with a rubber or ink with a pocket knife, in his quest to
obtain perfection—and examining them provides the opportunity to explicate his
creative process, compositional procedures, and working methods, along with the
genesis of individual pieces and the documentation of unfinished projects.
In 1960 Ursula Vaughan Williams presented to the British Museum approximately
200 manuscript and printed sources of the composer’s music, and this bequest now
is the foundation of the British Library’s Ralph Vaughan Williams Collection.14
Although a small number of manuscripts are in the possession of individuals (i.e.,
privately owned), or are located in other repositories in the UK and abroad, most of
the significant artifacts are housed in the British Library.15 Indeed, since the original
bequest, over eighty-five volumes have been added to the collection and significant
artifacts continue to appear, as, for example, the autograph full score of Flos Campi,
which had gone missing for many years only to be rediscovered in 2003. How was
it lost? Where was it found? What does it reveal?
Flos Campi: Reception History, Compositional Features, and Significance
Flos Campi was first performed on 10 October 1925, two days before the fifty-
third birthday of the composer.16 It was written by a man in the prime of his life
who, in addition to the exacting daily routine of composition, was leading a
busy and productive existence through his heavy involvement in conducting (the
London Bach Choir, the Leith Hill Festival, and his own compositions), lecturing,
studying, and teaching at the Royal College of Music and at his home in London,
13 Cheyne Walk. He attended concerts, absorbing and exciting, of the standard
repertoire and of the newest music, enjoyed his acquaintances and friendships,
especially with Holst but also with a younger generation of composers, participated
still in considerable pro bono committee work (e.g., the proceedings of the Folk-
Song Society), and traveled at home and abroad with his first wife Adeline (née
Fisher), to whom he had been married (from 9 October 1897) for 28 years. They
were happy, though Adeline’s health was poor—the arthritis that would cause such
great suffering at the end of her life was beginning to incapacitate her; in fact,
because she could not manage the stairs at Cheyne Walk, it was the cause of their
move in 1929 to Dorking, where the composer lived until 1953, one year after
Flos Campi by Ralph Vaughan Williams 107
her death—whereas Ralph’s health was robust, and his intellectual prowess and
musical creativity were at their apex. It was an extraordinary period, a time of
looking forward—to the future that, astonishingly, would give him thirty-three
more years of prodigious and undiminished creativity. Vaughan Williams’s idiom
was now completely mature—he had found his voice earlier—and in 1925 he was
embarking on the creation of some of his most powerful and experimental music;
indeed, three remarkably idiosyncratic works were completed that year: Sancta
Civitas, an oratorio for large performing forces, the Concerto in D minor (also
known as Concerto Accademico), for violin and string orchestra, and (dedicated
to Lionel Tertis) Flos Campi, a suite for solo viola, small wordless mixed chorus,
and small orchestra in six movements, each of which is headed by a Latin Vulgate
quotation, with an English translation, from the Song of Songs.
From the moment of its premiere, Flos Campi has been explored in the Vaughan
Williams literature by a number of authors, who attempted to understand and
elucidate its meaning, evaluate its compositional features, and debate its place in
the canon of the composer. The discourse is quite similar and suggests that the
interpretative ideas are based on the analytical comments of previous treatments.
For example, it was H.C. Colles who established the manner in which the work was
approached in his review of the first performance—“The composer has wilfully
surrounded the flowers of his musical thought with a thorny hedge of riddles”17—
and in his discussion of the aspects that baffled him in his next consideration five
days later, i.e., the use of the chorus as instrumental timbre—“The ear, which
will be content to take a melody simply as a melody from Mr. Tertis’s viola,
feels that the same melody sung to ‘Ah’ or with closed lips by voices has not the
same eloquence, because the voices could do something more with it”—and the
superscriptions from the Song of Solomon—“Its composer has made matters worse
by his references to the Song of Solomon which, whether given seriously or not, are
certainly not explanatory. He has, rather, wilfully raised barriers in the minds of his
hearers which the music itself may not be strong enough to sweep away.”18
An attempt to clarify these observations was made by Howes in 1937:
“There is … no need to look for a connected chain of thought behind the six
numbers of this suite for solo viola, voices, and small orchestra, nor to puzzle
over the interconnections of the quotations from the Vulgate which are their
superscriptions. They are translations of poetic imagery into music.”19 Foss, in
1950, added: “Each of the six panels is prefaced by a verbal quotation, in two
languages, from The Song of Songs, which is known in the Old Testament as The
Song of Solomon—first the AD 400 Hieronymian Latin from the Vulgate, second
the seventeenth-century poetry of the ‘Revisers.’ The oddity of the thing is that the
vocalizers on ‘ah’ and ‘ooh’ give us a refracted impression of the words quoted
before each of the pictures. They enounce no intelligible consonants, refer to no
associative logotypes; but they tell us in a quaint and vague new musical language
of the meaning of their prefaces.”20 Dickinson, in 1963, continued the explanation:
“As in Debussy’s ‘Sirènes’ (Nocturne no. 3) and Ravel’s Daphnis and Chloe, the
singers hum or ‘ah’: they carry no privilege of expression. There is, however,
a clue to the sequence of movements, some thematically linked. The suite is in

some sense a reflection of certain verses of the Song of Songs, a work successively
interpreted as a cycle for a wedding ceremony, a collection of liturgical pieces for
the ancient Adonis-Tammuz celebrations, a fertility cult, or, most probably, a set
of erotic poems, written possibly under their influence.”21
Nevertheless, successive commentators of the work were bewildered by the
wordless chorus (although the composer had used voices in this fashion in Willow-
Wood and Five Mystical Songs, and would continue to do so in subsequent pieces)
and, to a greater degree, by the extra-musical quotations, in Latin (without, at first,
an English translation). Colles had reported: “We are left to guess … whether the
music had been prompted by the antique poem, or whether (as was Schumann’s
way) the adorning labels were affixed in afterthought.”22 This statement was
amplified (in 1963) by Dickinson (“The biblical quotations here might have
been placed as an after-thought, or they reflect a very broad coincidence of a
plan to elaborate the Hebrew poem in music and a decision to write a work for
viola”)23 and Kennedy (in 1964) (“It is also a classic illustration of idiom breeding
inspiration, because the style of the music seems to have dictated the extra-musical
quotations from the Song of Solomon”).24 However, Ursula Vaughan Williams told
her readers (in 1964): “In Flos Campi, words were the starting point, episodes from
the Song of Songs. The viola with its capability of warmth and its glowing quality
was the instrument [Vaughan Williams] knew best, and he used it fully in the six
sections that explore the sorrows, glories, splendours, and joys of the Shulamite,
the King, and the shepherd lover.”25 Mellers, in 1989, then offered: “the work was
inspired by that wonderously physical-metaphysical hymn, the Song of Songs, in
the Latin Vulgate, though with the superb translation from the Authorized Version
appended. … Certainly its imagery and cadences animate Vaughan Williams’s
music here as so often, though the words of the Song of Songs are not sung.”26
These quotations convey something further about the work: the classification
(generically and textually) of Flos Campi was in question. Foss (in 1950) opined:
“There is no doubt that Flos Campi was written, at the importunate pleas of Lionel
Tertis for support for his instrument as a soloist, in the form of a piece for a viola-
player. The form, on the other hand, did not work out that way.”27 Dickinson (in 1963)
concluded that “the free disposition of the suite into six arbitrary movements, its
overt titular references to a coherent text, and its exploitation of intimate choral and
instrumental sonority, place it beside the unscheduled, opportunist choral works,
rather than the broader, symmetrical route of the symphony.”28 Whereas Kennedy
(1964) countered with the following: “Flos Campi is sometimes included among
Vaughan Williams’s choral music—and that is reasonable, because it needs a choir
for its performance—but its musical place is really amid the instrumental works,
for the voices, wordless, are used as instrumental colouring”; yet he qualified this
with the following: “Flos Campi is not a concerto, and the composer’s title of
suite is non-committal. ‘Six Images’ might have been nearer the mark.”29 To these
statements may be added the judgment (in 1989) of Mellers: “[Vaughan Williams]
produced a masterpiece in direct homage to the viola.”30 The comments of Day
(1961) addressed both the “religious” and the “choral” issue: “The composer did
not clarify matters over-much by prefixing a motto in Latin from the Song of
Solomon to each of the six movements. This misled many early commentators
into classing it either with his ‘religious’ works, with his choral works, or with
both, especially as the forces involved include a wordless chorus.”31 Kennedy and
Mellers shared similar perspectives on the biblical sources of the text: compare the
former (“In his programme-note for the second performance the composer denied
that the music had any ecclesiastical basis. … It seems likely that the music was
generated by human passion and love, and it certainly sounds gloriously pagan”)32
to the latter (“The theological symbolism with which the Church somewhat
desperately interpreted this book of the Old Testament is not—on Vaughan
Williams’s own testimony—pertinent to Flos Campi, though it might be called a
religious work in that it is concerned with the incarnation of the spirit in flesh and
with the spirit’s liberation from this ‘mortal coil’”).33
Vaughan Williams attempted to correct some of the misconceptions about the
suite in his program notes written for a performance in 1927, as intimated by
the last two authors, even though he usually declined to impose upon others an
exclusive interpretation of the meaning of his music, instead allowing listeners
to form their own opinions unless he believed they were entirely off the mark.
“When he did speak, it was often in a flippant tone shot through with impatience,
a clear defence mechanism, and even to those close to him he revealed little,”34 as
is evidenced by the notes to Flos Campi:
When this work was first produced two years ago, the composer discovered that
most people were not well enough acquainted with the Vulgate (or perhaps even
its English equivalent) to enable them to complete for themselves the quotations
from the “Canticum Canticorum”, indications of which are the mottoes at
the head of each movement of the Suite. Even the title and the source of the
quotations gave rise to misunderstanding. The title “Flos Campi” was taken by
some to connote an atmosphere of “buttercups and daisies”, whereas in reality
“Flos Campi” is the Vulgate equivalent of “Rose of Sharon” (Ego Flos Campi, et
Lilium Convallium, “I am the Rose of Sharon, and the Lily of the valleys”). The
Biblical source of the quotations also gave rise to the idea that the music had an
ecclesiastical basis. This was not the intention of the composer.35
Despite Vaughan Williams’s explanation, the verbiage about Flos Campi

continued to focus on the title, the chorus, or the viola, which stimulated the authors
to employ a vocabulary that associated them with pastoral or anthropomorphic
elements; for examples of the former, see Howes, already quoted above (“The
flower of the field of the title is not the lily as a symbol of God’s providence or
of Solomon’s love; it is the lily as a pure image”),36 Day (“The true measure of
Flos Campi is revealed by [the] finale, which unfolds gently, almost imperceptibly
and in an unambiguous D major, like a Japanese flower opening out in water, not
surging onward to a fortissimo climax, and finding time to look back before it dies
away in remote peace, neither in nostalgia nor in regret, but in quiet, reflective
satisfaction, to the opening of the work from which everything else evolved”),37
Dickinson (“The title ‘Flos Campi’, then, is a little obscure, but it denotes no
common bloom”),38 Young (“The Song of Solomon, on which Flos Campi is based,
is a pastoral of immense beauty in poetic imagery…”),39 Kennedy (“Its pastoral
character is limned with skill and evocative power”),40 and Mellers (“Chorus and
strings murmur Nature-music again reminiscent of the Pastoral Symphony”);41
for the latter, see Young (“the solo viola … is of stringed instruments the most
colourful, holding within its nature that of the human voice”),42 Day (“A depiction
of the virile and masculine aspect of the lover as man of war follows [the third
movement], with the viola performing a sinuous, voluptuous, and alluring yet
essentially masculine dance in counterpoint against it, which leads into the most
intense movement of the six, simply aching and pulsing with ardent longing”),43
Kennedy (“the viola, its voice husky with passion, as Simona Pakenham has
brilliantly remarked, sings its ecstatic rhapsody”),44 and Mellers (“The magical
potency of the viola informs every moment of this work, even when the soloist
is silent. His identity is obscure; he might be the voice of Pan, or Nature, or of
human lover and beloved, or he might be all of these simultaneously. The small
mixed chorus wordlessly ululates: so they, too, are of ambiguous identity—ghosts
or fairies, spirits from beyond, or man and womankind, generically rather than
specifically”;45 and, furthermore, “Strings fluctuate in false related triads, similar
to those in the Pastoral Symphony. They might be sighing winds or supernatural
creatures, though we also hear them anthropomorphically, as though they were
equivalents to human longing or despair”).46
Other terms used to describe the work, such as “contemplative,” “erotic,”
“exotic,” and “passionate,” were subjective though apprehensible,47 while the
language of art, discovery, and psychology was broached, along with that of
metaphor. Foss referenced art—through the name of “van Eyck,” “panels,” “subtle
shade,” and “colours”—and discovery:
We stand with him, in a rapture of contemplation, on a lonely island of music,

mist-surrounded, though we have, for ourselves, the dim, mystical light of his
music to guide our feet when we wish to move. Yet, all the while, we are aware
of an unseen ferry, hidden in the enveloping cloud, which takes us in mind to
the Five Mystical Songs, to the Pastoral Symphony, to the Tallis Fantasia, or on
a voyage into future discovery to “Dives and Lazarus” and the ports of the D
major Symphony.48
Mellers’s contribution was a psychological portrait of the composer as “double

man”: “Vaughan Williams’s hymn to Eros (‘Stay me with flagons, comfort me
with apples’) begins with this stark admission of the doubleness inherent in sex
and love; and it seems to be the laceration that arouses both the music’s physical
voluptuousness and its metaphysical exultation.”49 And Day and Kennedy used
their metaphors (of “unknown region” and “heavenly city”) to interpret the suite or
to place it vis-à-vis the earlier and later works of the composer—Day’s statement
had a psychological dimension to it (“Flos Campi is thus a glance into yet another
unknown region, this time not into deep waters or towards some remote symbolic
Heavenly City, but inwards into the passionate—and at times highly erotically
charged—depths of the human psyche. It is at the same time rich and fervent, yet
remote and strange”)50—Kennedy’s did not (“Vaughan Williams was beginning to
move into regions where not everyone was able to follow him. ‘No map there, nor
guide,’ they might quote, but this was hardly true. The map and the guide were
both in the Pastoral Symphony and even in such a deceptively simple piece as The
Lark Ascending”).51
If the descriptions by Day above seem to have suggested a compositional
design (evolutionary or organic) for Flos Campi, already Howes had theorized
about this topic when he wrote about the suite: “The actual stuff of the music is
a progress from a keyless, rhythmless, arabesque-like melody signifying desire
and longing for the beloved (amore langueo)—to a diatonic, rhythmic, almost
march-like, theme, worked contrapuntally in canon and imitation expressive of
fulfilment (Pone me ut signaculum super cor tuum, ‘Set me as a seal upon thy
heart’)” and “[It] is an example of a piece of music that relies for its unity, not
on structural devices, but on kinship of themes which grow one out of the other,
and on identity of mood.”52 Others pinpointed certain palpable moments in Flos
Campi, especially the beginning and end. Regarding the beginning: once again,
Colles had the first say (in the seventh volume of the Oxford History of Music), but
by no means the last, in a line of thought about it. His view (“how far the music of
the twentieth century has already proceeded along its own path may be gauged by
the quotation of a simple passage in two-part counterpoint which begins a work by
a composer not held to be an extremist of the modern school”)53 became a locus
classicus and was reiterated by Howes (“The opening passage of Flos Campi has
been quoted in the seventh volume of the Oxford History of Music as an epitome
of what modernism in music means”)54, Young (“The atonality of the opening
counterpoint between oboe and viola has been quoted as a significant stage in
twentieth century music”),55 Dickinson (“The bitonality (E and F) of the oboe and
viola in the initial cadenza was once made an historical exhibit of the complete
repudiation of the nineteenth century”),56 Kennedy (“The famous bitonal opening
for oboe and viola is the first of several masterstrokes”),57 and Mellers (“The first
of the six movements has a famous opening that was once slightly infamous: the
viola sings with solo oboe (a pastoral instrument) in arabesques that are innocently
pentatonic yet in relationship to one another sharply bitonal”).58
Apropos of the end: both Kennedy and Mellers cited Vaughan Williams’s use
of a thematic version of Sine Nomine, the composer’s magnificent tune to the
hymn “For all the Saints.” Kennedy pointed out that “the last climax of all is yet
another variation of the Alleluia theme, Vaughan Williams’s instinctive formula
for his biggest emotional crisis,”59 whereas Mellers indicated that “[the] D major
tune is one of Vaughan Williams’s miracles … which is not far from the alleluias
in Vaughan Williams’s great hymn, Sine Nomine—which in its turn is to be echoed
at the end of the Fifth Symphony.”60 Dickinson believed that the last movement
was a “rift of style, the sudden abandonment of the characteristic in favour of an
epilogue which might occur anywhere, [and which] cannot escape notice.” To
support his thesis, he concluded:
The composer seems to show some final misgivings by his elusive close on the
basis of a two-plane ascent from the fifth degree of B minor to the tonic, on a
receding horizon, leaving the fifth degree within hearing and an unequivocal
tonic to the imagination. Even then, there remains a choice of accepting B minor
as the keynote, taking the ear back to the start of the movement, or of invoking
D major as a necessary completion after so much assertion of that key. Certainly
a rigid close is, as so often, avoided.61
Conversely, Mellers thought that “[the] final D major triad … is almost as blissful
as the end of the Fifth Symphony.”62
Several of the commentators addressed the sound qua sound of Flos Campi,
which they found to be a compelling feature. According to Howes, “it is in fact
the most sensual work [Vaughan Williams] has written, and the sensuous beauty
of sound is of prime importance.”63 This conviction was echoed by Foss (“Flos
Campi is an exquisite study in pure sound”64) and Kennedy (“Of all the works by
Vaughan Williams I think this is the most beautiful considered in terms only of
sound”).65 Day preferred to couch his comments about the aesthetic quality of the
sound in the context of palette, scoring, and tonality: “Vaughan Williams’s harsh,
bright orchestral and vocal palette overwhelms the listener by its sheer intensity
as well as by the work’s sumptuous tonal complexity and ambivalent harmony”66
and “the scoring throughout is beautifully judged, the wordless voices in particular
adding a purely human and partly mystical ardour to the music rather than
projecting any philosophic or impersonal timelessness, as they do in some other of
his works.”67 Similarly Dickinson reflected: “The novel interest is, of course, the
intrinsic quality of the viola part, and of voices used as a special reed-chorus in
conjunction with solo wood and brass and incidentally a tuneful celesta.”68
The significance of Flos Campi was recognized by Foss, who considered it “one
of [Vaughan Williams’s] most original, and most important, expressions,”69 and
Kennedy, who posited a status for the suite as “truly inimitable, a masterpiece.”70
Though Kennedy produced what has been recognized as the authorized study
of the composer and his works, perhaps Foss, in the course of his brief study,
articulated a verdict that posterity may be able to accept:
How this strange, exquisite, integral work came to be written, on such a subject
and at such a date (1925), is matter for thought for each student of Vaughan
Williams’s mind, to be explained, or accepted unexplained but with gratitude,
as we each of us think of that mind. For myself, I consider its position in the
mind’s expression central—a given factor … I am content: give me the sound
of Flos Campi, and if I hear in it a different meaning, see in it a different angle
towards the inspiring poetry, I shall like it the more, not the less, for that, each
time I hear it.71
Genesis, Autographs, and Descriptions
According to Ursula Vaughan Williams, the composition of Flos Campi “kept

[the composer] busy through the autumn” of 1924,72 and one can imagine how he
applied himself to the task based on her description of his compositional routine.
Vaughan Williams was an animated worker in her presence, dashing from his
desk to the piano every now and then. He was usually up by six in the morning,
worked at music an hour and a half before breakfast and, again, from nine until
lunch at half past twelve. After tea he did more work in the study until suppertime
and, then, perhaps another hour before going to bed. It was in this fashion that he
was able to manage the immense amount of work he undertook.73 This statement
might lead one to think that the composer created at the keyboard and, certainly,
Vaughan Williams made frequent use of it (“Does not the actual shock of sound
help to fertilize [a composer’s] imagination and lead him on to still further musical
invention?”; “I habitually and unashamedly use the pianoforte when composing”;
and, “I can see no moral harm, and great artistic advantage, in making certain of
our ideas by trying them over and exploring their possibilities at the pianoforte”)74,
but his music rarely shows signs of a pianistic genesis; rather, the instrument was
utilized to try over material composed away from the keyboard.
One cannot be certain when the composer actually began Flos Campi, however.
Pencil annotations may be seen in the pages of Vaughan Williams’s Bible,75 which
suggest that at a certain point he was contemplating some type of vocal setting
(see Figure 5.1), but these could have been made before 1924. Instead, some of
the verses or lines from the Song of Solomon were used, along with the Latin
from which they are derived, as superscriptions to the movements of the suite, as
follows (square brackets indicate phrases that Vaughan Williams did not set):
• movement I: 2:2 (“As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the
daughters”) and 2:5 (“Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I
am sick of love”);
• movement II: 2:11 (“For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone”)
and 2:12 (“The flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds
is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land”);
• movement III: 3:1 ([“By night on my bed] I sought him whom my soul
loveth: [I sought him,] but I found him not”), 5:8 (“I charge you, O
daughters of Jerusalem, if ye find my beloved, [that ye] tell him, that I am
sick of love”), and 6:1 (“Whither is thy beloved gone, O thou fairest among
women? Whither is thy beloved turned aside? That we may seek him with
thee”);
• movement IV: 3:7 (“Behold his bed, which is Solomon’s; threescore valiant
men are about it, [of the valiant of Israel”]) and 3:8 (“They all hold swords,
being expert in war: [every man hath his sword upon his thigh because of
fear in the night”]);
• movement V: 6:13 (“Return, return, O Shulamite, return, return, that we
may look upon thee. [What will ye see in the Shulamite? As it were the
company of two armies”]) and 7:1 (“How beautiful are thy feet with shoes,
O prince’s daughter! [the joints of thy thighs are like jewels, the work of the
hands of a cunning workman”]);
• movement VI: 8:6 (“Set me as a seal upon thine heart, [as a seal upon thine
arm: for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals
thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame”]).
A sketch may be seen in Add. MS. 57294 F,76 a volume in the Ralph Vaughan
Williams Collection that has been labeled (but not dated) by the British Library as
a sketchbook—it consists of 6-stave pages in an oblong format (about 6″ × 9″)—
though it should more properly be called a pocketbook used by the composer to
jot down germinal ideas.77 Adopting the words of Alain Frogley, the sketch can be
described as “no more than a rough memorandum of a mental conception which
the composer was at that stage unwilling or unable to notate more fully.”78 Indeed,
it is very tentative: the calligraphy is almost illegible; it is on a single page of
manuscript paper (fol. 8r) and in pencil; there are no clefs, no meter specifications,
no key signatures, no accidentals, and it is barred in a rudimentary manner. In
essence, it represents an adumbration of an idea, inspired by the imagination,
and the earliest stage in the creative process. Regrettably, no examples have been
uncovered of the sketching and drafting, of the trying and sifting through various
alternatives, from the adumbration to the autograph full score.79
One might think that the autograph full score of Flos Campi would have been
included among those found in 1958 by Roy Douglas, Michael Kennedy, and
Ursula Vaughan Williams, as the last described in her preface to Working with
Vaughan Williams:
After R.V.W.’s death, in 1958, lost and unfinished works came to light. Our box-
room was large, half the pediment in the centre of Hanover Terrace. The walls
were lined with bookcases full of scores and books about music, while a large
wooden box and an old-fashioned trunk were filled with manuscripts, stored in
a confusion that their owner had understood and that no one else had ventured
to explore. Here Roy Douglas was unstinting in his kindness, for he brought not
only order from chaos, but sound from silence, as he played through forgotten
or discarded works to Michael Kennedy and to me. We were each facing the
daunting prospect of books to be written, Michael Kennedy about R.V.W.’s
music, and I his biography.80
But the autograph was not there and, in his Catalogue, Michael Kennedy reported
the following: “Whereabouts of MS: Unknown.”81
Figure 5.1 Vaughan Williams’s Bible, GB-Lbl Add. MS. 63850, p. 569
The autograph full score of Flos Campi had not been lost, however; rather, it
had been given to Elizabeth Maconchy by Vaughan Williams at the final rehearsal
at Queen’s Hall. Maconchy (1907–94), who received her musical education at
the Royal College of Music (1923–29), studying composition with Charles Wood
and Vaughan Williams, had accompanied some of the rehearsals for the singers
conducted by Vaughan Williams and Sir Henry Wood and, thus, was asked by
the composer to listen to the orchestral rehearsal for its first performance on
10 October 1925. Hence, the score was presented to her in gratitude for her
assistance. At a much later date (Christmas 1977, to be exact) the autograph
was given by Maconchy to her daughter, Anna Dunlop.82 Subsequently, on
24 September 2003, it was purchased by the British Library from the Dunlop
family (Frank and Anna), with the aid of a grant from R.V.W. Ltd., and assigned
the temporary shelf-mark of Deposit 2003/22.83
Before discussing the details of the full score, it will be helpful to summarize
those features that it has in common with other autographs in the Ralph Vaughan
Williams Collection; thereafter, our observations will move from the general to
the specific as we conduct a front-to-back overview, a closer page-by-page survey,
and a precise measure-by-measure perusal. All of the autograph materials exhibit
numerous alterations: revisions or deletions entered into a draft, short score, or full
score by the composer in advance of his writing out the next, fresh version. Minute
revisions involving pitches, rhythms, or chords are notated on a stave or just above
or below it; longer passages are circled with an emendation appearing nearby at
the top or bottom of the page; and deletions excluding erasures of pencil by a
rubber or ink by a pocket knife are executed by a diagonal line through a measure
or an entire page. It cannot be assumed that the modifications are entered in a
linear sequence from the beginning to the end, and it is never possible to determine
the amount of time taken to implement the changes or how many revisional passes
were made. In addition to these methods, it was Vaughan Williams’s habit to
introduce collettes to his autographs, ranging in size from one measure to an entire
page, which supersede the versions over which they are attached. Almost all of
these were affixed to the manuscripts with adhesive tape rather than with paste,
giving the artifacts a mosaic-like quality. Usually these are foliated individually
by the British Library, complicating the folio total for some autographs when there
are a great number of them; and, if the collettes have become unstuck, they are
simply attached to a manuscript with a paper clip. Finally, at the beginning of his
autographs, Vaughan Williams indicates clefs and key signatures on (almost) all of
the recto/verso sides of the folios, although later on, when he was working rapidly
or was careless, there are instances of their placement only on the verso side of the
pages or of their omission altogether.
Because the autograph full score of Flos Campi is a recent acquisition of
the British Library, it was unbound and un-foliated at the time of this author’s
inspection. A front-to-back overview reveals the following: the autograph consists
of 33 pages (variously bundled and paginated by the composer recto/verso
consecutively from 1 to 64, with the exception of the last page, for a total of 66)
and was penned in black ink (with some corrections and additions in black and red
ink [the Latin quotations to each movement] and pencil [annotations, emendations
to the parts, and added rehearsal numbers]) on 20-stave manuscript paper. The use
of ink and pencil, and of different writing utensils, reflects the normal practice of
Vaughan Williams, who picked up whatever implement was at hand: a fountain
pen or a nib pen that needed to be dipped frequently into an inkwell or bottle, with
black and blue ink encountered most frequently, although other colors are visible
occasionally; and the appearance of lead pencil is rather common, although less so
than ink, whereas ballpoint pen is rarely seen.
Although Vaughan Williams’s leaping and sprawling penmanship is notoriously
messy, the autograph full score is rather neat in appearance. The distribution of
the performing forces on the page is slightly different from that of the published
edition; that is, the viola solo line is placed by Vaughan Williams at the top of each
page, whereas in the published version it is companioned with the strings, and
the disposition is as follows: flute (also taking piccolo), oboe, clarinet, bassoon,
horn, trumpet, percussion (two players required for bass drum, cymbals, triangle,
tabor or tambourine without jingles played with a hard stick), harp, celesta, chorus
to number 20 (three each of sopranos 1 and 2, and of altos 1 and 2; two each
of tenors 1 and 2, and of bass 1 and 2) or 26 (four each of sopranos 1 and 2,
and of altos 1 and 2, two tenors 1, three tenors 2, two bass 1, and three bass 2),
solo viola, violin 1 and violin 2 (not more than six each), violas (not more than
four), celli (not more than four), and double bass (not more than two). The precise
specifications—the solo viola, one each of the woodwinds and brass, harp and
celesta, the unusual percussion battery, the wordless chorus of twenty to twenty-
six singers, and a maximum quota of twenty-two strings—indicate Vaughan
Williams’s preoccupation with the sonorities of Flos Campi as the foremost of
its attributes, and Kennedy believed this was the first work by the composer to do
so.84 However, depending on the number of instruments and/or choral parts being
employed at a given moment, not every stave is utilized on each page.
The movements are numbered with Roman numerals, but the fourth one has
been labeled incorrectly as movement III (thus the composer uses III twice). And,
as mentioned above, the Latin quotations, or fragments thereof, are featured at
the beginning of every movement as superscriptions in red ink. On page 1 (top),
Vaughan Williams penned “Sicut lilium inter spinas”; on page 8 (top), “Iam enim
hiems transit, imber abiit et recessit; flores apparuerunt in terra nostra … vox
turturis audita est in terra nostra”; on page 20 (eleventh stave), “Quasivi quem
diligit anima mea, quaesivi illum et non inveni”; on page 24 (eleventh stave), “En
lectulum Salomonis sexaginta fortes ambiunt … omnes tenentes gladios, et ad
bella doctissimi”; on page 35 (top), “Revertere, revertere Sulamitis! Revertere,
revertere ut intueamur te. … Quam pulchri sunt gressus tui in calceamentis, filia
principis”; and, on page 51 (top), “Capite nobis uulpes paruulas quae demoliuntur
uineas nam uinea nostra floruit” (that is, Song of Solomon 2:15: “Take us the foxes,
the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes”), which
he then marked through (in black ink) and changed to “Pone me ut signaculum
super cor tuum” (this, too, is in black ink). Unfortunately, the Latin Vulgate
Bible referenced by the composer is not included in the Ralph Vaughan Williams
Collection and, therefore, one can only speculate about his initial choice. Did
Vaughan Williams mistake the consequent line “uineas nam uinea nostra floruit”
of its antecedent “Capite nobis uulpes paruulas quae demoliuntur” (2:15) for the
consequent line “uinea mea coram me est” (“my vineyard is in my presence”:
8:12) of its antecedent “Pone me ut signaculum super cor tuum”? Or, did the
former have some deeper meaning, because it precedes “dilectus meus michi et
ego illi qui pascitur inter lilia” (“my beloved is mine and I am his, he who feeds
among the lilies”: 2:16)?85
Conspicuous features emerging from a page-by-page survey include the
excision of a complete measure at 6/14,86 from top to bottom, on page 18; a change
of meter (at the double bar before movement III), from ³½ to 4 , on page 20; a
one-measure collette (appended to the first bar of movement IV) on page 24; the
absence of clefs and key signatures on pages 37, 39, 45, 48, 49, and, partially,
51; the emendation of a character marking, from Andante sostenuto to Moderato
tranquillo (as well as the alteration of the Latin motto), on page 51; the use of only
one vertical half of page 64 for the two measures before the niente marking at
29/7–9, followed by a boldly descending (from left to right) wavy slash and (at the
top) two deleted measures (one measure each of the viola solo and oboe parts of
the bitonal restatement); and a single leaf of manuscript paper, pages 65–6, which
carries the indicated restatement unabbreviated and the final closing (30/passim)—
the latter reveals that Vaughan Williams contemplated a slightly modified ending
as is evident by the cross-outs of 30/4–7 on page 65 and 30/11 on page 66; here,
too, the chorus sings without the support of the strings in 30/1–5.
A closer inspection of the final movement in its entirety discloses that, quite
unexpectedly, it is not the same as the published edition. The difference involves
the number of measures (from rehearsal number 25 through rehearsal number
26, the manuscript consists of sixteen measures, the published edition of eight
measures), the harmonic progression, especially, at 25/1–5, and the passage work
for the harp and celesta at 25/6–16 (see Figure 5.2, autograph pp. 56, 57, and 58): in
the published version, the harp and celesta play together their succession of chords
(C, C, e, f# / G, G, G / a, G, f# / G, f#, e), whereas in the autograph full score the
celesta begins first and is followed by the harp a bar later (the celesta plays C, C, e,
F / G, G, G / a, G, F / G, F, e / F, e, F while the harp executes F, F, a, B@ / c# [sic],
F, e / d, e, F / e, F, G / a); and, in the next (autograph) passage, the two instruments
play broken chord patterns. A minor change occurs in the choral part from 27/10
to 28/2, where the tenor 2 has the bass 1 line. Clearly, the implication must be
that it was another autograph, succeeding this one, from which the publisher
engraved the printed score, unless modifications were introduced to the proofs of
the published edition. As is well known, Vaughan Williams did not believe that
his music was unalterable after it had been committed to paper (in final copy), for,
upon hearing a work a few times and even following its publication, he would not
hesitate to emend it if he thought it improved the final result.
The autograph full score may now be scrutinized in greater detail via a measure-
by-measure perusal. Though our method has been to start at the beginning—
recording the physical characteristics of the manuscript from top to bottom, staff
by staff—and to proceed to the ending (the Chapter 5 Appendix presents the
information gleaned in this form), here our observations will be described by
instrumental and choral groupings. Annotations concerning intonation and balance,
the excision of passages, and the alteration of rhythm were introduced at some point
to the all-important viola solo part. For example, on page 1 at the colloquy of the
viola solo and flute (five measures before rehearsal number 1), one finds the remark
in pencil “does this sound in tune,” a characteristic concern of Vaughan Williams,
though it is unclear whether the handwriting is that of the composer or Elizabeth
Maconchy; while on page 11 at the entrance of the viola solo (rehearsal number
4), a similar comment may be seen in pencil (at the top of the page): “does this
come through.” Passages excised are located on page 15 at 5/9–11, where Vaughan
Williams marked through three measures of the viola solo part; on page 35 at the
beginning of movement V, where the composer has the viola solo duplicating the
soprano 1 part for four measures, only to draw through them; on pages 48/49 at
21/1–2, where the viola solo part was removed in a like fashion; and on pages
52/53 at 22/12–23/8, where the viola solo was deleted. The alteration of rhythm is
effected on page 46 at 19/2; there the rhythm of the viola solo part is changed from
a dotted half-note to an eighth-note with concomitant rests.
The chorus part was treated by Vaughan Williams in a comparable way, for
there are annotations about the execution of the choral lines, the deletion and
addition of notes, and pitch corrections. For example, on page 8, the composer
indicated (at the bottom of the page) “Lips nearly closed—extreme head voice.”
In the published edition, his statement has been reversed to “Extreme head voice.
Lips nearly closed. (ur).” On page 18 at 6/13, the composer wrote that the chorus
should “close lips gradually”; the indication does not appear at this point in
the published edition. The deletion of notes with heavy/bold pencil overlays is
noticeable on pages 11 at 4/1–5, 12 at 4/6–10, and 13 at 4/11–13, where some of
the choral parts (T/B/T/A and B/A/S in the last two instances) are obscured; and
less heavily on pages 33 at 15/1, 50 at four measures before movement VI, and
60 at 26/6–8, where, in that order, the composer notated a soprano choral part
(duplicating the men’s parts), the soprano choral part was written one staff higher,
and the soprano 1 part was notated too early, all of which the composer marked
out. A note addition, penciled into the soprano 1 part, may be seen on page 62 at
28/3. Lastly, corrections to pitches are located on page 20 at 7/8, where Vaughan
Williams penned at the bottom of the page “# to G in soprano,” and on page 24 at
10/1–2, where he circled in pencil the (clarinet and) alto choral part, and then drew
lines to the corrected notes at the bottom of the page.
Alike in substance to the corrections above are the alterations to the string
complement, which include note (and slur) deletions and additions, note erasures,
verbal instructions such as “col viola” or “col solo,” and the clarification and
distribution of divisi parts. The first of these types is visible on pages 19/20 at 7/1–
Figure 5.2 Flos Campi, GB-Lbl Dep. 2003/22, pp. 56, 57, and 58.
4, where the notes for the cello and bass are marked through by Vaughan Williams;
on pages 62 at 28/1, where notes are penciled into the viola tutti part; and on page
63 at 29/4, where the tie has been eliminated in the violin 1 part. The second type
occurs on page 62, along with emendations to other parts: erasures—deep scratches
really—in the violin 1 part (28/3) (and bassoon part [28/4–6]). The third type may
Figure 5.2 Continued
be cited on pages 21 at 8/1 and pages 28/29/30 at 13/8: at the former, there are no
tutti viola and cello lines but Vaughan Williams wrote at the top of the page that
these parts should play “col viola” (meaning with the solo viola part); at the latter,
the composer marked through the viola tutti part, which was doubling the violin 1
and 2 parts, and instructed them to play “col solo” (with the viola solo part). Lastly,
Figure 5.2 Concluded

the longest passage of corrections on pages 36 through 44 at 16/3–18/7 embodies

the fourth type; these corrections are listed below in sequence.
• At 16/4 to 16/11, the violin 1 part is marked through (in pencil); the new
notes are penciled into the adjoining staves: the violin 1 staff at 16/6–7, the
bass choral staff for one measure at 16/8, and the violin 1 staff at 16/9–10.
• At 16/4 to 16/9, the violin 2 part is drawn through and rewritten above the
violin 1 part; the notes have been changed from g and e to b and e.
• At 16/12–13, the violin 1 part is moved to the violin 2 part.
• At 16/14, the violin 1 part is changed to the note of a (as in the published
edition), the violin 2 part is changed to a@ and d (as in the published edition),
and a$ is written into the viola part.
• At 16/17–18, the violin 1 part is marked through; the violin 2 part plays
“col 1” (as in the published edition).
• At 17/4–5, the cello and bass notes share a single staff and are circled.
• At 17/6–9, the violin 1 part is drawn through; in these four measures, the
violin 2 part is written on the violin 2 staff (17/6) and, then, on the staff
above the violin 1 part (17/7–9).
• At 17/10, the notes for the violins 1 and 2, viola, and cello are clarified.
• At 17/11–13, the violin 1 part is marked through, while the violin 2 part
continues to play the same notes “col 1.”
• At 18/1, the violin 2 part is eliminated, but the notes are identical to those
the part is playing “col 1” (see as above).
• At 18/2, the violin 1 part is excised and given to the violin 2 part.
• At 18/4, the violin 1 part is deleted and the notes for the viola and cello
parts are clarified.
• At 18/5, the notes for the viola and cello parts are amended.
Vaughan Williams completed various modifications to the parts of the wind

instruments that parallel those of the foregoing, inasmuch as they comprise the
addition and deletion of notes, along with their removal through erasure, as
well as note clarification and replacement. These may be referenced throughout
the autograph: here, on page 11 at 4/2–4, where the notes for the clarinet were
marked through, and there, on pages 47/48 at 20/1–5, where the flute part, which
was doubling the violin 1 part, was blotted out; here, on page 16 at 6/3, where
the composer first notated the (harp and) horn part of 6/4, then placed it in the
succeeding measure (6/5), and there, on pages 52/53 at 23/1–5, where the horn part
was written, initially, as a trumpet part, crossed out, and located to its proper position
on the horn staff; and here, on page 24 at 10/1–2, where the composer circled in
pencil the clarinet (and alto choral) part, and then drew lines to the corrected notes
at the bottom of the page (already cited), and there, on page 62 at 28/4–6, where the
removal of the bassoon part was carried out with a pocket knife that produced deep
scratches (mentioned in connection with the violin 1 part at 28/3).
The emendations to the harp part are few in number yet correspond to what
has been described above; in each instance but one they involve the excision of
notes by the action of marking through them. On page 11 at 4/3–4, the notes in the
harp part were crossed through and accompanied underneath by the word “out”;
on page 12 at 4/7–9, the notes in the harp part that were imitating the choral bass
line at 4/5–7 were eliminated; on page 13 at 4/12–14, the notes in the harp part
that were imitating and embellishing the material in the choral parts were drawn
through; and on page 16, the harp (and horn) part of 6/3 was notated at 6/4, then
rewritten in the succeeding measure (6/5) (referenced previously). Beyond these
spots, it is important to note that Vaughan Williams was never comfortable with the
intricacies of the harp and frequently had to refashion his parts for the instrument.
Conclusion: A Historical Documentary Record
It is impossible to determine how many revisional passes were made (or when)
to the autograph full score. Those concerning the balance and tuning of the
instruments, and the vocal effect and execution of the choral parts, may have been
added during or after the dress rehearsal, but those dealing with the emendation
and modification process per se could have occurred at any time. It may have been
that the corrections to the long passage on pages 36 to 44 were accomplished at
one sitting—one cannot be certain because the composer did not write for long
stretches at a time, but stopped for periods of reflective thought and work at the
piano—whereas the many minute changes throughout the manuscript could have
been made at odd moments.
Nevertheless, the autograph manuscripts of Ralph Vaughan Williams make it
clear how rigorously and tenaciously he pursued the quest for “the right phrase,
the proper context, and the true conclusion.”87 The fact that the composer saved so
many of his manuscripts is an indication of their importance to him. To scholars, the
survival of this extraordinarily rich compositional history, deposited in the British
Library as the Ralph Vaughan Williams Collection, is of immense significance
because research on the composer and his works is infinitely more valuable when
it is based upon the holographic artifacts.
In this study, the rare rediscovery of a missing autograph of Vaughan Williams,
the full score of Flos Campi, provided the remarkable opportunity to review the
work’s reception history, performance forces, expressive polarities, compositional
structure, and extra-musical implications vis-à-vis an examination of its physical
characteristics and the composer’s working methods. Certainly, a comparison of
the autograph manuscript to others in the voluminous collection was essential and
helpful. Considering them all together, one must agree with Dickinson that “the
[manuscripts] show, first, Vaughan Williams’s preliminary saunters in unmapped
territory, choosing between alternatives of basic thematic character. Then he can
be followed as he commits himself on the scale of a movement, turning back only
for refinements of line, rhythmic shape, punctuation and the like, and occasionally
for a fresh structural turn. Inevitably the whole process is most meaningful when
the achieved result is impressive.”88 However, even when the manuscript sources
for a particular work are meager, such as for Flos Campi, their perusal is arresting
and fascinating, and can lead to discoveries that alter what is known about it.
What, then, does the autograph full score reveal? Flos Campi can be placed
with the imaginative choral essays of Vaughan Williams, for words were its
starting point, specifically lines from the Bible, as shown above, which Vaughan
Williams loved his entire life. It may be seen as an outgrowth of his immersion in
choral music during this period—for example with the Leith Hill Musical Festival
in Dorking and the Bach Choir in London—which dictated the performing forces
and medium of the compositions on which he labored and that he released at
intervals, for example the Mass in G minor (1920–21), The Shepherds of the
Delectable Mountains (1922), and Sancta Civitas (1923–25); furthermore, “he
was also continuing the work begun with The English Hymnal in 1905, with his
collaboration with Martin Shaw on Songs of Praise published in 1925, and the
Oxford Book of Carols, [eventually] published in 1930.”89 Hence, although the
viola figures prominently in Flos Campi, its compositional impetus was not the
instrument per se or Lionel Tertis, who first performed it—the “Viola Suite” was
written for him instead90—but human passion. Some might conjecture that Vaughan
Williams was infatuated with one of the young women whom he encountered
frequently in the course of his professional endeavors—he was not unsusceptible
to their considerable charms; perhaps Elizabeth Maconchy, to whom he gave
the autograph score and with whom he maintained a long correspondence—but
it is more likely that the stimulus was his wife, Adeline, to whom he had been
married for twenty-eight years and remained devoted until her death. Finally, the
amendments and adjustments made to the full score are entirely characteristic of
Vaughan Williams; they represent changes for the sake of sonority and timbre,
tighten the harmonic relationships between or within sections, correct inaccuracies
of notes and rhythms, and make it easier to hear the choir or particular instruments.
Before closing, it may be pertinent to ask why Vaughan Williams expended
such ardent and arduous effort on his compositional activity. Consider the
following quotations from the composer: “we all, whether we are artists or not,
experience moments when we want to get outside the limitations of ordinary
life, when we see dimly a vision of something beyond. These moments affect us
in different ways. … those whom we call artists find the desire to create beauty
irresistible”; or “the composer … says to his performers …: ‘I desire to produce
a certain spiritual result on certain people; I hope and believe that if you blow,
and scrape, and hit in a particular manner this spiritual effect will result. For this
purpose I have arranged with you a code of signals in virtue of which, whenever
you see a certain dot or dash or circle, you will make a particular sound; if you
follow these directions closely my invention will become music …’”; or “The
object of art is to stretch out to the ultimate realities through the medium of beauty.
The duty of the composer is to find the mot juste.”91 From these quotations, it is
obvious Vaughan Williams believed that a composer needed routine hard work
and sure purpose to create works of art.
Finally, one comes to something in the manuscripts impossible to catalogue.
It is the incredible care and concentration one feels in even the least of them, the
pride and passion in combination with an overriding insistence on order and on
quality. To quote Dickinson yet again: “one cannot but admire for its own sake
the sturdy pursuit of image and shape, from raw intimations to a homogeneous
experience.”92 But, most importantly, in the case of Flos Campi, as in all of the
works of the composer, Vaughan Williams’s “dots, dashes, and circles” lead one
back to his “vision”—of beauty and of the ultimate realities.93
Chapter 5 Appendix: Revisions to the Autograph Full Score of Flos Campi

by Ralph Vaughan Williams
p. 1. At the colloquy of the flute and viola solo (5 before rehearsal number 1), one
finds the annotation in pencil “does this sound in tune” [sic], though it is not
clear if the handwriting is that of Vaughan Williams or Elizabeth Maconchy.
p. 8. For the execution of the choral parts, the composer indicated (at the bottom of
the page): “Lips nearly closed—extreme head voice.” In the published edition,
his statement has been reversed: “Extreme head voice. Lips nearly closed.
(ur).”
p. 11. At the entrance of the solo viola line (rehearsal number 4), one finds the
annotation in pencil (at the top of the page): “does this come through” [sic].
Additionally, notes for the harp part (4/3–4) are marked through with the word
“out” underneath, as are the notes for the clarinet (4/2–4); and, at 4/1–5, some
of the choral notes are covered with heavy/bold pencil overlays (and, thus,
deleted).
p. 12. At 4/7–9, Vaughan Williams marked through the harp part which was
imitating the choral bass line at 4/5–7; and, at 4/6–10, some of the choral parts
(T/B/T/A) are, again, covered with heavy/bold pencil overlays.
p. 13. At 4/12–14, the composer crossed through the harp part, which was
imitating/embellishing the material in the choral parts. Again, at 4/11–13, the
choral parts (B/A/S) are covered with bold pencil overlays. Additionally, the
harp chord at 5/1 in the published edition does not appear in the autograph.
pp. 14/15. At 5/2–7, the composer marked through the flute and clarinet parts,
which were duplicating the violin 1 and 2 parts; and the bassoon and horn parts
are clarified.
p. 15. At 5/9–11, Vaughan Williams marked through the passage for the solo viola
part; and there is no indication that the chorus should sing “open” at 5/8, which
appears in the published edition.
p. 16. At 6/3, the composer (in a hurry, perhaps) notated the harp and horn parts
of 6/4, then marked through them and added them in the succeeding measure.
p. 18. At 6/13, Vaughan Williams wrote that the chorus should “close lips
gradually,” but the indication does not appear at this point in the published
edition. Additionally, 6/14 is excised completely from top to bottom.
pp. 19/20. At 7/1–4, there are notes for the cello and bass that are marked through
by the composer.
p. 20. At the double bar (before Movement III), Vaughan Williams marked through
the meter of  and changed it to<. Additionally, at 7/8 (5 before rehearsal
number 8), he penned at the bottom of the page “# to G in soprano” [meaning
soprano 2].
p. 21. At 8/1, there are no tutti viola and cello lines but the composer wrote at the
top of the page that these parts should play “col viola” [with the solo viola part].
pp. 23/24. At 9/15–10/2 (top of p. 19 in the published edition), there are no flute or
oboe parts in the autograph.
p. 24. At 10/1–2, Vaughan Williams circled (in pencil) the clarinet and alto
choral parts, and drew lines to the bottom of the page where the corrected
notes (as in the published edition) were written (again in pencil). Additionally,
a one-measure collette is paper-clipped into the score (which appears as
the first measure of Movement IV in the published edition); this delays the
commencement of the march by one measure.
pp. 28/29/30. At 13/1–8, Vaughan Williams marked through the viola tutti part,
which was doubling the violin 1 and 2 parts, and instructed them to play “col
solo” (with the viola solo part).
p. 33. At 15/1, the composer (in a hurry, perhaps) notated a soprano choral part
(duplicating the men’s parts), only to mark through it (in pencil).
p. 35. At the beginning of Movement V, Vaughan Williams has the solo viola
duplicate the soprano 1 part for four measures, only to draw through them.
pp. 36–44. At 16/3–18/7, Vaughan Williams marked through much of the violin
1 and 2 parts—this long passage of corrections deals primarily with the
clarification and redistribution of their divisi notes—as follows:
The violin 1 part is marked through (in pencil) from 16/4 to 16/11; the new notes
are penciled into the adjoining staves: the violin 1 line/staff at 16/6–7, the bass
choral staff for one measure at 16/8, and the violin 1 staff at 16/9–10.
The violin 2 part is drawn through from 16/4 to 16/9, and rewritten above the
violin 1 part; the notes have been changed from g and e to b and e.
The violin 1 part is moved to the violin 2 part at 16/12–13.
At 16/14, the violin 1 part is changed to the note of a (as in the published edition),
the violin 2 part is changed to a@ and d (as in the published edition), and a$ is
written into the viola part.
At 16/17–18, the violin 1 part is marked through; the violin 2 part plays “col 1” (as
in the published edition).
At 17/4–5, the cello and bass notes share a single staff and are circled.
At 17/6–9, the violin 1 part is drawn through; in these four measures, the violin 2
part is written on the violin 2 staff (17/6) and, then, on the staff above the violin
1 part (17/7–9).
At 17/10, the notes for the violins 1 and 2, viola, and cello are clarified.
At 17/11–13, the violin 1 part is marked through, while the violin 2 part continues
to play the same notes “col 1.”
At 18/1, the violin 2 part is eliminated, but the notes are identical to those the part
is playing “col 1” (see as above).
At 18/2, the violin 1 part is excised and given to the violin 2 part.
At 18/4, the violin 1 part is deleted and the notes for the viola and cello parts are
clarified.
At 18/5, the notes for the viola and cello parts are amended again.
Additionally, clefs and key signatures do not appear on p. 37, p. 39, p. 45, p. 48, p.
49, and, partially, on p. 51.
p. 46. At 19/2, the rhythm of the viola solo part is changed from a dotted half-note
to an eighth-note with concomitant rests.
pp. 47/48. At 20/1–5, the flute part, which was doubling the violin 1 part, is blotted
out.
pp. 48/49. At 21/1–2, the solo viola part has been deleted.
p. 50. At four measures before Movement VI, the soprano choral part has been
written one staff higher and, then, marked through by the composer.
p. 51. At first Vaughan Williams indicated a character marking of Andante
sostenuto, then he changed it to Moderato tranquillo (as in the previous five
measures). Additionally, the Latin superscription was altered (see above).
pp. 52/53. At 22/12–23/8, a viola solo part is deleted. Additionally, the horn part
at 23/1–5 was written, initially, as a trumpet part; this was crossed out and,
thereafter, placed on the horn staff. Clarinet and bassoon notes are clarified on
page 52, as well.
p. 59. At 26/30–33, the alto 1 and 2 parts are written on one line; on p. 60 at 27/3,
they are given separate staves, as are the S/T/B. Additionally, at 26/6–8, the
soprano 1 part is notated too early, which the composer marks through.
p. 62. Incidental emendations are present: i.e., penciled in notes (that coincide with
the published edition) in the viola tutti (28/1) and the soprano 1 part (28/3),
and erasures—deep scratches really—in the violin 1 part (28/3) and bassoon
part (28/4–6).
p. 63 resembles p. 62 in its emendations, though there are only two; i.e., the
composer began the harp part one measure early at 29/1, then marked through
it, and in the violin 1 part at 29/4 the tie has been eliminated.
p. 65. At the bitonal restatement, the viola solo part is above the oboe part.
Notes
1 A.E.F. Dickinson, “The Vaughan Williams Manuscripts,” Music Review, 23 (1962):

177–94, p. 179.
2 Dickinson, “The Vaughan Williams Manuscripts.”
3 See ibid. and A.E.F. Dickinson, Vaughan Williams (London, 1963), pp. 496–511.
4 Alain Frogley, “Vaughan Williams and Thomas Hardy: ‘Tess’ and the Slow
Movement of the Ninth Symphony,” Music and Letters, 68 (1987): 42–59; Byron
Adams, “The Stages of Revision of Vaughan Williams’s Sixth Symphony,” Musical
Quarterly, 73 (1989): 382–400.
5 These include Michael Kennedy, The Works of Ralph Vaughan Williams (London,
1964), reissued in a revised edition in two volumes, the first retaining the original
title as given above, the second as A Catalogue of the Works of Ralph Vaughan
Williams (Oxford, 1982) (the second edition of the former was reissued in 1992
as a Clarendon paperback, whereas the second edition of the latter was issued
in 1996), and Ursula Vaughan Williams, R.V.W.: A Biography of Ralph Vaughan
Williams (London, 1964) (reprinted, with corrections, in 1984 and first published
as a Clarendon paperback in 1992); a volume of selected writings of the composer,
some of which had been printed a number of times (in 1934, 1953, 1955, and
1963)—National Music and Other Essays by Ralph Vaughan Williams (Oxford,
1987) (a subsequent edition was released in 1996); and the correspondence between
the composer and his amanuensis—Roy Douglas, Working with Vaughan Williams:
The Correspondence of Ralph Vaughan Williams and Roy Douglas (London, 1988)
(a revised and expanded version of the same author’s book of 1972).
6 Wilfred Mellers, Vaughan Williams and the Vision of Albion (London, 1989)
(flawed but highly imaginative), and James Day, Vaughan Williams (Oxford, 1998),
the third (revised) edition of a volume in The Master Musician Series published
in 1961 (by J.M. Dent and Sons) and reprinted in 1972 (an introduction to the
composer intended primarily for the layperson).
7 Neil Butterworth, Ralph Vaughan Williams: A Guide to Research (New York, 1990)
(an imperfect yet useful catalogue).
8 Jerrold Northrop Moore, Vaughan Williams: A Life in Photographs (Oxford, 1992),
and Ursula Vaughan Williams, There Was a Time (London, 2003) (both exhibiting
fascinating pictorial material relating to the composer and his milieu).
9 Alain Frogley (ed.), Vaughan Williams Studies (Cambridge, 1996); Lewis Foreman
(ed.), Vaughan Williams in Perspective: Studies of an English Composer (London,
1998); and Byron Adams and Robin Wells (eds), Vaughan Williams Essays
(Aldershot, 2003) (penetrating discussions centering on various topics and, in the
first instance, designed for the musicologist).
10 Alain Frogley, Vaughan Williams’s Ninth Symphony (Oxford, 2001), based on his
dissertation (“The Genesis of Vaughan Williams’s Ninth Symphony: A Study of
the Sketches, Drafts, and Autograph Scores,” two volumes, D.Phil. thesis, Oxford
University, 1989); and Lionel Pike, Vaughan Williams and the Symphony (London,
2003) (again, meticulous and thorough research directed to the musicologist).
11 Ursula Vaughan Williams, Paradise Remembered: An Autobiography (London,
2002) (an autobiography by the widow of the great composer that includes a candid
description of their friendship, close artistic collaboration and subsequent marriage),
and Hugh Cobbe (ed.), Letters of Ralph Vaughan Williams 1895–1958 (Oxford,
2008) (the definitive publication of 750 letters, about a fifth of the surviving corpus,
written by the composer).
12 For a discussion of the Vaughan Williams research since the mid-1980s, see the
preface to Frogley (ed.), Vaughan Williams Studies and the introduction to Frogley,
Vaughan Williams’s Ninth Symphony.
13 See, for example, Anthony Pople, “Vaughan Williams, Tallis, and the Phantasy
Principle,” in Vaughan Williams Studies; Andrew Herbert, “Unfinished Business:
The Evolution of the ‘Solent’ Theme,” in Lewis Foreman (ed.), Vaughan Williams
in Perspective: Studies of an English Composer (London, 1998); and Stephen
Town, “‘Full of Fresh Thoughts’: Vaughan Williams, Whitman and the Genesis
of A Sea Symphony,” in Byron Adams and Robin Wells (eds), Vaughan Williams
Essays (Aldershot, 2003).
14 The original bequest is catalogued as Add. MS. 50361–50482, and is described
in Pamela J. Willetts, “The Ralph Vaughan Williams Collection,” British Museum
Quarterly, 24 (1961): 3–11. For a list of Vaughan Williams acquisitions to the mid-
1960s, see Pamela J. Willetts, Handlist of Music Manuscripts Acquired 1908–67
(London, 1970). Subsequent acquisitions, together with explicit information on
all manuscripts, are listed in the typescript and card catalogues in the Rare Books
Room and also in the online catalogue of manuscripts.
15 See Kennedy, A Catalogue of the Works of Ralph Vaughan Williams; and Alain
Frogley, “Vaughan Williams and the New World: Manuscript Sources in North
American Libraries,” Notes, 48 (1992): 1175–92.
16 See Chapter 7 in Kennedy, The Works of Ralph Vaughan Williams, and Chapter 9 in
Ursula Vaughan Williams, R.V.W.
17 Quoted in Kennedy, The Works of Ralph Vaughan Williams, p. 190.
18 Ibid., pp. 190–91.
19 Frank Howes, The Later Works of R. Vaughan Willliams (Oxford, 1937), pp. 6–7.
20 Hubert Foss, Ralph Vaughan Williams: A Study (London, 1950), pp. 157–8.
21 Dickinson, Vaughan Williams, p. 234.
22 Quoted in Percy M. Young, Vaughan Williams (London, 1952), p. 61. Subsequently,
Young himself wrote: “The relation between music and text is left in suspense by
the fact that the chorus is employed as a feature of the orchestral texture with much
more singleness of purpose than had ever hitherto been the case,” p. 61.
24 Kennedy, The Works of Ralph Vaughan Williams, p. 211.
25 Ursula Vaughan Williams, R.V.W., p. 156. She preceded these sentences with the
following: “He had taken a literary idea on which to build his musical thought in
The Lark Ascending and had made the violin become both the bird’s song and its
flight, being, rather than illustrating, the poem from which the title was taken.”
26 Mellers, p. 107.
27 Foss, p. 157. He continues: “the instrument’s sound led to other thoughts, already
simmering in the composer’s mind (for who knows how long?). The time and
the place and the loved one came together, but the nuptials produced this quite
astonishing issue.”
30 Mellers, p. 107.
31 Day, p. 228.
33 Mellers, p. 109. However, Mellers concluded his study of the work with the
following sentence: “it is difficult to think of any music, apart from Bach’s that
seems so strongly to affirm the certitude of faith; yet it was created not by a German
Lutheran with centuries of religious tradition behind him, but by a Christian
agnostic in secularized, industrialized Britain” (pp. 109–10).
34 Frogley, Vaughan Williams’s Ninth Symphony, p. 28.
35 Quoted in Kennedy, A Catalogue of the Works of Ralph Vaughan Williams,
pp. 106–7. According to Ursula Vaughan Williams in R.V.W.: “[Vaughan Williams]
was … delighted to discover that the orchestra [for the first performance] had
nicknamed it ‘Camp Flossie’,” p. 161.
36 Howes, p. 7.
37 Day, p. 229.
39 Young, p. 61.
41 Mellers, p. 108.
42 Young, p. 61.
43 Day, p. 229.

45 Mellers, p. 107.
46 Ibid., p. 108. Mellers goes on to write: “In a very different piece, …—the one-
act opera Riders to the Sea—Vaughan Williams used similar techniques [for the
strings] to emulate wild wind and surging sea; they were to crop up again many
times, climactically in the Sinfonia Antartica,” p. 108.
47 As examples, one may mention Howes, “… the most passionate section of the
work,” p. 13; Foss, “Flos Campi speaks to us with … mystical afflatus—ecstatic,
feverless, rich, contemplative,” p. 156; Young, “the strangeness of the exotic
theme,” p. 62; Day, “the passion it expresses is projected with an economy of
means that is poles apart from Wagner: and searing, full-blooded passion is surely
what it demands in performance,” p. 228; Dickinson, “an absorbed contemplative
manner,” Vaughan Williams, p. 238; and Mellers, “So if [the theme] is erotic as well
as exotic,” p. 109.
48 Foss, p. 158.
49 Mellers, p. 108.
50 Day, p. 229.
52 Howes, pp. 8 and 10.
53 H.C. Colles, The Oxford History of Music, Vol. 7: Symphony and Drama (Oxford,
1934), p. 13.
54 Howes, pp. 8–9.
55 Young, p. 62. Moreover, he wrote: “It may be added that the experiment arises from
a characteristic English aptitude for literal interpretation and that the strangeness
of the exotic theme prompts an indicative musical gesture which opens new
imaginative approaches.”
56 Dickinson, Vaughan Williams, p. 235. He indicated, furthermore, that “[this] serene
corroborative melody, now imitative and manifold, now quasi-strophic, is enigmatic
in its context.”
58 Mellers, p. 107.
60 Mellers, p. 109.
61 Dickinson, Vaughan Williams, pp. 237–8.
62 Mellers, p. 109.
63 Howes, p. 7. Howes continues: “He has therefore scored it for an orchestra in
which every instrument retains its individual flavour to the utmost. One each of
the wind makes an ensemble in which the individual flavors are never submerged
in the ordinary orchestral tutti. There is a representative battery of the more exotic
instruments—A harp, celesta, triangle, cymbals, drum and tabor. And even more
immediate in its direct appeal to the senses is the wordless chorus of twenty to
twenty-six voices.”
64 Foss, p. 158.
65 Kennedy, The Works of Ralph Vaughan Williams, pp. 211–12. Kennedy wrote, as
well, that the suite was “a sensuous work from [the] composer’s pen, the product
of a new interest in sonorities combined with a mood expressive of the mingled
sexual-mystical ecstasy, derived from physical passion, which the Song of Solomon
also exemplifies,” p. 191.
66 Day, p. 228. He wrote also: “it is expressed with an intensity that may well have
sounded distinctly un-English to the work’s first listeners,” p. 228.
67 Ibid., p. 229. Furthermore, “the voices, however, are treated as part of the
instrumental colouring; and though the chorus part is prominent, it projects, reflects,
and stands over and against the ravishing concertante part for the solo viola,” p.
228.
68 Dickinson, Vaughan Williams, pp. 234–5.
69 Foss, p. 157. He goes on to write: “[the work] has a strange concatenation of
qualities: universal yet personal in speech, unappealing, it is endearing in its beauty;
personal in the extreme, it is remote; intimate, it stands in a lone philosophic attitude
of thought.”
71 Foss, pp. 158–9.
72 Ursula Vaughan Williams, R.V.W., p. 156.
73 Ibid., pp. 248 and 264.
74 Ralph Vaughan Williams, pp. 126, 187, and 219.
75 The British Library catalogues it as follows: 63850. RALPH VAUGHAN
WILLIAMS’S LIBRARY. Vol. I. The Holy Bible (Oxford, n.d.), with ‘The Song of
Solomon’, pp. 569–572, annotated as for a vocal setting. f. iii+pp. xxii+615. 136 ×
85mm.
76 The BL catalogues this as follows: 57294 F. VAUGHAN WILLIAMS
MANUSCRIPTS (SECOND COLLECTION). Vol. XXX F. / Sketchbook
containing ‘Let us now praise famous men’, 1923; ‘Riders to the Sea’, / 1936; ‘Flos
Campi’, 1925; etc. Partly pencil. / Ff. 11+10(h). 151 × 232mm. [The sketch of “Flos
campi” follows those of “Let us now praise famous men” (in pencil, on fols 2r, 2v,
3r, and 3v); a folk-song tune (“Barbara Allen”[?], in pencil, on fol. 4r [4v is blank]);
unidentified material (in pencil, on fols 5r, 5v, and 6r [6v is blank]); “Riders to the
Sea” (in pencil, on fols 7r and 7v); and unidentified material (from “Riders to the
Sea” [?], in black ink, on fols 8v, 9r, 9v, 10r, and 10v) comes after “Flos campi.]
77 The manuscript paper Vaughan Williams used was of various sizes, from notebooks
small enough to be carried in his pockets to the largest formats for orchestral
compositions.
78 Frogley, Vaughan Williams’s Ninth Symphony, p. 10.
79 We are told by Ursula Vaughan Williams, R.V.W., p. 398, that the composer’s “usual
method was to produce a full score from the first piano sketch, then make another
piano score from that full score, and re-score that. There were many changes on the
way, and the last draft was usually very unlike the first.” This statement was made
in 1958 in connection with the genesis of an opera, but seems intended to be general
in scope. But note Frogley, Ninth Symphony, p. 30: “Ursula Vaughan Williams uses
‘sketch’ to refer to a complete draft; [and] the composer also favoured this use of
the word.” They do not mean “sketch” in the Beethovenian sense of the word.
80 Ursula Vaughan Williams, preface to Douglas, Working with Vaughan Williams, p.
vii.
81 Kennedy, A Catalogue of the Works of Ralph Vaughan Williams, p. 65. In his
sourcebook, Butterworth records similarly: “Manuscript: Place Unknown,” p. 42.
82 This information was found on two small handwritten notes included with the
autograph. The first one (in black ballpoint) reads: “original MS. full score of
Vaughan Williams Flos Campi (in his hand throughout with many corrections)
Given to me by him at its final rehearsal at Queen’s Hall. I had played for some of
the rehearsals for the singers (with both V-W & Sir Henry Wood) so knew the score
pretty well—& he asked me to listen to balance etc at the orchestral rehearsal for
its first performance, 10th October 1925. Elizabeth Maconchy[.]” The second, and
slightly larger, one (in black ballpoint) reads: “Given by me to my daughter Anna
Dunlop Christmas 1977 Elizabeth LeFanu (Maconchy)[.]”
83 Information supplied via email on 28 July 2006 by Richard Bell, a member of
the British Library Department of Manuscripts staff, who wrote: “The reference
‘Deposit 2003/22’ is a temporary one; we hope to catalogue the manuscript in the
next year or two, at which point it will be assigned a permanent number in the ‘MS
Mus.’ series, and subsequently bound.” Moreover, “it was exhibited in a display of
‘Recent acquisitions of music manuscripts’ in 2004.”
85 The exhibition label (as follows) mentioned this feature, but an answer is not
provided: [6. Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872–1958) Flos Campi Dep. 2003/22
Almost all of Vaughan Williams’s manuscripts have come to the British Library
in the last 40 years, largely through the admirable and tireless efforts of his widow
Ursula. It was a particular delight last year when the full score of Flos Campi came
to light. Vaughan Williams composed his suite for solo viola, small wordless mixed
chorus and small orchestra in 1925 for [sic] the viola player Lionel Tertis. Each of
the six movements bears a quotation from the Song of Solomon. The last movement
is developed organically from a D major theme to which the composer attaches
the words ‘Pone me ut signaculum super cor tuum’ (‘Set me as a seal upon thine
heart’), but the original score reveals that Vaughan Williams had first associated
this movement with the words ‘Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the
vines: for our vines have tender grapes.’ Purchased from Mrs Anna Dunlop with the
generous assistance of RVW Ltd in September 2003.
86 I am using 6/14 to signify rehearsal number 6, measure 14; to cite another example,
25/1–5 means rehearsal number 25, measures one through five, with the first
measure being number 25.
87 Dickinson, “The Vaughan Williams Manuscripts,” pp. 177–94.
89 Cobbe, p. 99.
90 Ibid. See letter 548 from Vaughan Williams to Hubert Foss, p. 473 (“‘Flos Campi’
was not written for Tertis”) and letter 514 from Finzi to Vaughan Williams, p. 514
(“The arguments about whether [Sinfonia Antartica is] a Symphony or not are just
what one expected—from Dyneley Hussey who has no doubts that it is, to the
musicians who have. I can’t help feeling very strongly that it’s a work apart. Great
big work that it is, it’s not in the line of the Symphonies. … Your ‘Sinfonia’ leaves
the critics and announcers open to call it ‘his 7th symphony’, but it seems like
calling ‘Flos Campi’ ‘his viola concerto’.”
91 Ralph Vaughan Williams, pp. 14, 124, and 189.
93 Ralph Vaughan Williams, p. 14. In this context, the author wrote also: “The
composer starts with a vision and ends with a series of black dots. The performer’s
[or musicologist’s] process is exactly the reverse; he starts with the black dots and
from these has to work back to the composer’s vision.”
Chapter 6
“The light we sought is shining still”: An
Oxford Elegy by Ralph Vaughan Williams
For many years I have hoped that some English composer, Vaughan Williams for
preference, would set himself to transmute these poems [i.e., The Scholar-Gipsy and
Thyrsis], either as separate entities or in some sort of fusion. … After an intensive
study of his resulting composite text I find myself anything but sure that he has
been wholly successful; his sudden breaks and his occasionally arbitrary joins are
not ideally self-explanatory. … I am left with the feeling that the scheme … must
have an inner unity that is valid for him but not self-evident to the rest of us. … We
must accept Vaughan Williams’s poetic structure, then, as it is and wait for further
illumination of his general purpose. (Ernest Newman)1
To Transmute these Poems
Vaughan Williams’s chamber work for speaker, small mixed chorus and small
orchestra, entitled An Oxford Elegy, received its first public performance at
Queen’s College, Oxford University, on 19 June 1952 where, according to
Ursula Vaughan Williams, “the effect … was extraordinary; Steuart Wilson, the
speaker, had tears running down his cheeks: he was mildly outraged that he
should be weeping over a poem about Oxford. But they were enjoyable tears,
luxuriously nostalgic.”2 Ursula’s account continues with a lovely description of
an after-concert drive to Ashmansworth, where she and Ralph were staying with
Gerald and Joy Finzi. Vividly replete with the evening scents of the countryside,
the full moon, and the stars, it intimates a happier reality after the death of
Adeline on 10 May 1951. It seems the old composer was enjoying a new lease
of life with his dear friends and even growing younger by the day.
The success of the premiere was preceded by, and the result of, the first
private performance at The White Gates on 20 November 1949.3 This was a run-
through that the composer arranged to pre-audition the work he had started to
sketch two years earlier using portions of The Scholar-Gipsy and Thyrsis, two
long poems by Matthew Arnold. Ursula Vaughan Williams recounts: “There were
a good many discussions about it during the summer [of 1949]. … After using a
speaker for his Thanksgiving for Victory he thought it would be interesting to try
this again, but in a much smaller, almost chamber, work. He cut and re-cut the
poems, ‘cheating’ he said, so that all his favourite lines should be in—and I re-
typed the script almost every week.”4 Adeline had her part in it, too, as she was
still living at this time, for after the exciting play-through, she and Ralph had
many talks about the work while he went about the task of “washing its face.”5
These paragraphs from the biography of the great composer identify the
particular compositional elements against which the initial criticisms of An
Oxford Elegy were leveled: the utilization of a speaker with orchestra and the
emendation of Arnold’s poems. As an example of the latter, one may reference
Ernest Newman’s review published after the first London performance at
the Church of St Martin-in-the-Fields on 22 March 1953. “A fair amount of
preliminary verbal explanation,” he wrote, “will be required to make the work
fully intelligible either to listeners who do not know the Arnold poems or to
those who do. … I am left with the feeling that the scheme … must have an
inner unity that is valid for him but not self-evident to the rest of us. … We must
accept Vaughan Williams’s poetic structure, then, as it is and wait for further
illumination of his general purpose.”6
It is a given that spiritual aspiration in an agnostic context was a lifelong
preoccupation of the composer that found its early expression, chiefly, in the
celebrated settings of Walt Whitman. An author closer than Whitman to Vaughan
Williams was Matthew Arnold, “who rejected theological dogma, valuing
Christianity instead for its ethical code and social utility.”7 Arnold (1822–88)
may be thought of as one of the first modern writers: the alienation, moral
complexity, and humanistic values reflected in his critical and creative work
account for its abiding presence in the literary world. To be sure, the reiterating
motif of man’s lonely state and of a search for an inner self resonate a century
and more later.
As a poet, Arnold composed several lyric and narrative poems that take
their place with the best that the age produced. Along with Dover Beach, The
Scholar-Gipsy and Thyrsis contain the lyric energy and power that warrant their
inclusion in many anthologies and a body of criticism that admits them to the
most frequently elucidated works in the language. Indeed, lines from the poems
have become so commonplace in everyday speech that many do not know they
are quoting Arnold when they utter them. Because of his bent for prosiness and
intellectuality, Arnold has been labeled an academic poet by many, but Lionel
Trilling considered him as “primarily a musical poet. … The particular kind of
pain and pity, the particular kind of aspiration of [his] poetry, expressing itself
in a lovely legato so unlike the tight, crabbed movement of the bulk of his verse,
is best contained in music.”8 Surely it was this feature of Arnold, along with his
rational critiques, that attracted Vaughan Williams.
As early as April 1899 the composer finished a setting of Dover Beach,
which did not satisfy him and has not survived,9 while about 1908 he drafted a
setting of The Future, which remained incomplete and unpublished.10 In 1904 the
composer prefaced Harnham Down, the first of Two Impressions for Orchestra,
with a verse from The Scholar-Gipsy (“Here will I sit and wait / While to my ear
from uplands far away / The bleating of the folded flocks is borne / With distant
cries of reapers in the corn— / All the live murmur of a summer’s day”).11 In
“The light we sought is shining still”: An Oxford Elegy 137
spite of the fact that Harnham Down was finished in 1907 but left in manuscript,
Vaughan Williams was to be haunted by it and The Scholar-Gipsy for many
years to come. Indeed, when he began to sketch what was to become An Oxford
Elegy he incorporated into it some of the material from the early work.
A short essay of 120 measures, Harnham Down is divided into several
sections.12 The violas begin with a quiet passage, the first measures of which
constitute motif a—five harmonic major thirds that oscillate in a half-step motion
to a quarter, dotted-half, quarter, dotted-half, quarter rhythm before leaping
an interval of a perfect fourth—and from which derives much of the work’s
thematic substance. A variant of motif a immediately follows in the clarinet and
bassoon lines: motif b, abbreviated with a rhythm of three eighth-notes and a
whole-note and a falling fourth at its end. A repetition of motif b ending with a
stepwise chromatically descending gesture leads to section two (see Figure 6.1).
It commences with a euphonious violin theme, motif c, encompassing eight
measures. The initial contour of the first five notes, with their descent of a major
sixth followed by a descending minor second, is its most prominent profile.
Undoubtedly, motif c (truncated) will be recognized as the lovely first theme of
An Oxford Elegy (Example 6.1). The musical discourse continues with motifs d,
e, and f, all of which derive from motif b. Motif d consists of four notes featuring
two leaps, a perfect fourth and a minor second, which proceed from the initial
pitch. Motif e, also transferred to An Oxford Elegy, is constructed of five notes
that begin with a leap of a perfect fourth followed by an ascending minor second
and a descending minor second (Example 6.2). Motif f is made up of four notes
exhibiting one leap, a perfect fourth, which returns to the initial pitch. These
are distributed among the various instrumental parts, then a resplendent climax
occurs (at m. 41) with another statement of motif c.
Section three commences with a slowing of the harmonic rhythm in the
strings, as a third-inversion B minor seventh chord alternates with a second-
inversion D major chord, over which sounds motif f used as the basis for a
hushed and tranquil colloquy between solo oboe and solo clarinet. Thereafter, the
progression changes to emphasize the Neapolitan relationship, a third-inversion
B minor seventh chord moving (through a G# diminished seventh chord) to a
second-inversion E@ major seventh chord, while the colloquy is continued by the
solo horn and solo flute. The former executes perfect fifths rather than fourths and
ends with a stepwise chromatically descending gesture, whereas the latter echoes
with perfect fourths. This is an utterly beautiful moment in the musical fabric,
the quiescent probing of the melodic strands standing out against the harmonic
stasis of the supporting strings, and one thinks of similar moments in Finzi’s
Requiem da Camera and Intimations of Immortality. At this point, Vaughan
Williams marked through two measures and repeated the foregoing, elongating
the solo flute part, and including the stepwise chromatically descending gesture,
underscored by triplet pulsing strings. Attached to the end of the flute solo is a
chromatic embellishment in thirds, rather like a descending glissando, which
inaugurates section four.
Figure 6.1 Harnham Down, full score, GB-Lbl Add. MS. 57278, fols 42r–43v
This section is a languid impressionistic sketch consisting of two new motifs,

g and h. The first, given to the flute and clarinet, centers on a repeated minor
third; the second, a solo for clarinet and horns, is reminiscent of a theme from
The Solent (c. 1903), the second of Four Impressions for Orchestra, by Vaughan
Williams. The rhythmic content of the second motif continues in the violin
passage, which leads to section five, a reprise of section two and a review of its
motifs. However, in place of the earlier full-bodied climax is a pensive passage
for solo cello, accompanied by impressionistic fragments and chords in the wind
and (pizzicato) string parts respectively, and succeeded by a final statement of
motif c. The work concludes with a thirteen-measure section, a variation of the
introduction constructed on motifs a and b.

Figure 6.1 Concluded

Example 6.1 Harnham Down by Ralph Vaughan Williams, motif c (unpublished),

mm. 13–16
Example 6.2 Harnham Down by Ralph Vaughan Williams, motif e (unpublished),

mm. 25–30
An Inner Unity
As mentioned above, Vaughan Williams used selected lines from The Scholar-
Gipsy and Thyrsis to create his composite text for An Oxford Elegy. The discussion
of his musical setting will proceed vis-à-vis the brilliant explication of the poems
by Dwight Culler, who is freely paraphrased here.13 The genesis of The Scholar-
Gipsy may be found in The Vanity of Dogmatizing (1661) by Joseph Glanvill,
which Arnold acquired in 1844. Several sentences from a condensed passage of
the work, which originally prefaced Arnold’s poem, became the starting point for
his own conception.14 It concerns a young Oxford scholar who, “tired of knocking
at preferment’s door,” turned his back on the troubled world and went to live with
the gipsies to learn “the secret of their art.” In Arnold’s poem, the Oxford scholar
becomes the Scholar-Gipsy, an evanescent spirit encountered by people from time
to time, still on his wanderings, still in search of the “spark from heaven,” for
which the suffering world awaits, also, to escape from the “strange disease of
modern life / With its sick hurry, its divided aims.”
On the other hand, Thyrsis was written to commemorate the death in 1861 of
Arnold’s friend Arthur Clough, a restless person and a less successful poet, who
seemed unable to find himself or a proper occupation in the Victorian milieu. The
two men had been schoolmates at Rugby and undergraduates at Oxford, where
they rambled the countryside and discussed the legend of the scholar who had
forsaken the world to find his own soul. Thus the motif of the Scholar-Gipsy
became interwoven with Thyrsis. Though the death of Clough provided the reason
for the elegy’s creation, its basic idea is not about his death but about his going
away and abandoning the ideal of the Scholar-Gipsy.
Ostensibly, these are the themes of the two poems as outlined by Culler, but,
as he continues, internally the subject of both is a quest. In the former, the author
seeks himself as poet, using the literary device of the Scholar-Gipsy with whom
he identifies, the evanescent spirit who wanders through the pastoral landscape
“waiting for the spark from heaven to fall,” and he finds himself as poet in the
course of writing his poem. However, in the latter, the author is seeking to recover
his creative power, symbolized by the vision of a tree, which power he recovers
not through the cerebral effort of writing about the tree but by acting like the
Scholar-Gipsy (“Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied”); that is, he
“flies” (“Quick! Let me fly, cross / Into yon farther field!”), which allows him to
see the tree again. In recovering his vision of the tree, Arnold renews his power to
continue the quest.15
The first part of The Scholar-Gipsy, Culler explains, is patterned on the
Romantic dream-vision as illustrated in the odes of Keats, especially the Ode to a
Nightingale. Its design may be described thus:
The poet reposes in a natural scene and through some inciting cause … is led
to meditate upon the scene until, dissolving as phenomenon, it is, by the power
of imagination, recreated as a noumenal reality, with which the poet achieves
creative union. Unfortunately, it is a union which cannot long endure, and so at

the end of the poem there is a descent back to the level of ordinary reality but
with the substance of the vision preserved forever in the work of art.16
In other words, the basic structure of such an ode is tripartite, inasmuch as its
primary flow is the vision, the loss of the vision, and its recreation in a different
mode, though it falls into five sections.
There is, first, an introductory section of three stanzas presenting the natural
scene; then the imaginative vision of the Scholar-Gipsy occupying the next ten
stanzas; then a single stanza in which the vision is repudiated as a mere dream;
then nine stanzas in which the essential validity of the vision, though not its
mythical substance, is reasserted; and, finally, two concluding stanzas with their
‘end-symbol’ of the Tyrian trader.17
Vaughan Williams outlines the overall structure, but only four of the five
sections, with a sensuously evocative harmonic language. The music from the
commencement of the work to letter M corresponds to the first section of the
poem, whereas the music from letter M to five measures after letter S represents
the second section, and from that point to three measures after letter T, the third
section. The music from three measures after letter T to seven measures after letter
V underscores a fourth section heavily abbreviated (the fifth section is omitted
completely by the composer), which is fused immediately and purposively with
the beginning of the companion poem, Thyrsis (see Chapter 6 Appendix 1).18
The work opens with music for orchestra and wordless chorus that exudes the
chromatic exoticism of that earlier and daring work of 1925, Flos Campi. Were it
not for Vaughan Williams’s title, An Oxford Elegy, the listener would not connect
it with a specific, but rather some universal, pastoral setting. In point of fact, the
music that initiates the work contains several motifs upon which the rest of the
work is entirely constructed. Emerging from the quiescent opening measures (þ¾
and Lento), the first motif (a) consists of two phrases, rhythmically asymmetrical,
each made up of an embellished descending major sixth followed by a descending
minor second and an ascending minor third (that is, a–g–a–c–b–d and g–f–g–
b@–a–c). The second motif (b) features three statements of an ascending perfect
fourth succeeded by an ascending minor second and a descending minor second
(d–g–a@–g, d–g–a@–g, and g–c–d@–c) (Example 6.3). Both motifs originated in
Harnham Down as motifs c and e (see Examles 6.1 and 6.2). Introduced by the
chorus, the third motif (c) is identified by its repetition of a single note, A, reached
initially by an ascending minor third and major second (d–f–g–a) and followed by
a descending minor second and augmented second (g#–f–a) or an ascending minor
third and descending minor second (c–b–a).
While the repetition of the single note and of the sinuous chromatic structure
of the third motif (c) contributes to the languorously intoxicating effect of the
composition, all three motifs are characterized by their propensity for elaboration,
Example 6.3 An Oxford Elegy by Ralph Vaughan Williams, motifs a and b (vocal
score: Oxford, 1952), p. 2
fragmentation, or variation, as they are concatenated in the music throughout the

work. Here, they appear in a musical prologue that in three paragraphs stretches
from the commencement of the work to one measure before letter C (vocal score,
p. 4; study score, p. 7). The first paragraph (mm. 1–9) features the first and second
motifs (a and b); the second paragraph (mm. 10–20) and the interlude that follows
it (mm. 21–25) are based on the third motif (c); the third paragraph (mm. 26–33)
uses the first motif (a) at its beginning and the third (c) at its end.
The first section of Arnold’s poem focuses on the lovely pastoral environment,
as it is presented in the opening three stanzas, especially in the second where the
poet has taken pains to distill “All the live murmur of a summer’s day.” As the
music of the second paragraph returns with its weaving third motif (c) sung by the
chorus, lines 1–5 of the first stanza are uttered by the narrator (vocal score p. 5;
study score p. 8):
Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill;

Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes!
No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed,
Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats,
Nor the cropp’d grasses shoot another head.
(Note that Vaughan Williams substitutes “grasses” for Arnold’s “herbage.”) The
music that follows, based on fragments of the third motif (c), reflects in mode,
meter, and tempo (C minor mode, þ¾, and Allegretto) the bucolic essence of lines
6–10 spoken by the narrator without the chorus:
But when the fields are still,

And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest,
And only the white sheep are sometimes seen
Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch’d green,
Come, shepherd, and again begin the quest!
The music of the opening measures returns (Tempo del principio), on the harmonic
level of A, to accompany lines 16–20 of the second stanza, lines 11–15 having
been deleted by Vaughan Williams, delivered first by the narrator, then repeated
by the chorus using the first and second motifs (a and b). Beautifully matching
words to music, “All the live murmur of a summer’s day” is sung by the chorus as
the orchestra presents the third motif (c) in a new guise (Poco animato) and in D
mode. Thereafter, the narrator, accompanied momentarily by the wordless chorus,
executes the third stanza, while the music based on the third motif (c) moves to a
G mode. At the end of the third stanza, the evocation of the towers of Oxford (line
30, “And the eye travels down to Oxford’s towers”) gave Vaughan Williams the
opportunity to transplant lines 19–21 from Thyrsis and, as such, “that sweet city
with her dreaming spires, / She needs not June for beauty’s heightening, / Lovely
all times she lies, lovely today” are sung to an exquisite setting by the chorus using
the first motif (a) at the cadential areas. (Note that Vaughan Williams substitutes
“today” for Arnold’s “to-night.”)
The second section of Arnold’s poem presents the dream-vision. “The poet
is left alone to begin his quest” for the ideal, which he does by being a scholar
with his book, a gipsy in his field. “It is a quest which is conducted entirely in the
imagination. The poet reads ‘the oft-read tale’ again, and as he falls into reverie,
the imagination fuses the tale with the natural scene about it into the poetic world
… . What he dreams is the substance of the ten scenes in which the Scholar-Gipsy
appears.”19 Yet, through a process of selective editing—that is, detecting supreme
poetic quality and meaning in single lines and short passages—Vaughan Williams
omits a sizeable portion of the ten scenes while retaining their essence. For
example, rejecting what might be unimportant lines and stanzas for the musical
discourse (stanzas 9–11 and most of 12), the composer preserves the defining
images of the Scholar-Gipsy as a genius loci and of the poet as a searcher for him
by retaining lines 53–4 (“the lost Scholar long was seen to stray, / Seen by rare
glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied”) and line 62 (“And I myself seem half to know
thy looks”), respectively. In a like manner, the composer retains the significant
dream-within-the-dream sequence and the inimitable picture of the Scholar-Gipsy
expecting some heaven-sent grace, as represented by lines 66–70 (“Or in my boat I
lie / … / And wonder if thou haunt’st their shy retreats”), 77–8 (“leaning backward
in a pensive dream, / And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers”) and 120 (“waiting
for the spark from heaven to fall”).
Musically, the dream-vision of the poet (vocal score, p. 12; study score, pp.
26–8) is signified by a new, fourth motif (d) introduced by an unaccompanied
instrument (bassoon) at the conclusion of the narrator’s fourth stanza. This new
motif is then elaborated and decorated by the chorus, which references at its end
a fragment of the third motif (c), as it is accompanied by “dream-like” orchestral
music (a hypnotically repeated sequence of incomplete chords played con sordino
by the violins). The dream-within-the-dream sequence (from letter O to the Lento
after letter P) possesses a static quality that is created efficaciously by the device of
a pedal point on D over which a fragment of the third motif (c) is featured through
chromatically side-slipping chords (vocal score, p. 13; study score, pp. 29–32).
The remarkable thirteenth stanza features “the recognition between the poet
and the Scholar-Gipsy as they pass upon the causeway chill,” for it is here that
Arnold becomes “a character in his own poetic dream.”20 It is an astonishing
literary moment, as we see the poet seeing himself together with his creation.
Vaughan Williams frames this scene (from the Lento to three measures after letter
S) with music, which may derive from Harnham Down, that is mysteriously eerie
and strange (vocal score, p. 15; study score, pp. 35–6) (Example 6.4). A solo
viola line is silhouetted against a wordless chorus (SA) that four times reiterates
a series of minor chords (b@, g, b@, g, b@), the second and third of which (now re-
harmonized with orchestra as G@M7, g, G@M7, g) culminate in dissonant clusters, b@
clashing with a Neapolitan-like (but minor) sonority (b/d/f# though spelled c@/d/g@
by Vaughan Williams), for violins, cor anglais and clarinet.21 The music becomes
almost motionless at letter R through the use of a sustained pedal point on B@ for
tremolo violins. As the Scholar-Gipsy turns to watch “the lines of festal light in
Christ Church hall,” a D major sonority (a Neapolitan of the d@/c# that is to come)
is twice executed forte by cor anglais, horn, viola, and cello tremolo, and double
bass pizzicato. The clever combination of dynamics, registration, and harmony
creates a passage of considerable expectation, but the anticipated resolution does
not occur; rather, the dissonance and tension are succeeded by the final iteration
of the series of minor chords and, then, the sudden cry of “But what—I dream!”
The third section of the poem, a single stanza only, of which Vaughan Williams
cuts lines 132–5, is inaugurated by this abrupt revelation of the speaker, “But
what—I dream!” (line 131), “who in the poem awakes to find himself on the cold
hillside of a purely phenomenal slope in the Cumnor range. He is now in the state of
mind in which the Scholar-Gipsy is merely a particular individual who died some
two hundred years ago” and who is presently “in some quiet country churchyard
laid.”22 Vaughan Williams signals the end of the dream, in a less dramatic fashion,
with the music (C minor mode, þ¾), based on the third motif (c), used to reflect the
rustic scene of lines 6–10 (for example, compare the former, labeled Allegretto, 2
beats, dotted quarter–note = 52, with the latter, marked Andante con moto, 2 beats,
dotted quarter = 60).
At the conclusion of this stanza a poem by Keats would have ended—“with the
myth asserted and left to stand in its own precarious fragility as possibly a waking
dream”—but Arnold’s poem does not end here.23 The descent back to the ordinary
level of reality “which destroys the Gipsy [has changed] the locus of the poet.”24
From the beginning of the fourth section, line 131 passim, he is no longer with the
Gipsy-Scholar in a dream but has reawakened in the real world without him and,
inasmuch as he is fully cognizant of his position, his language is representative
of it. This is what is responsible for the extraordinary alteration in the diction
of the poem from which all the best known and most quoted phrases come. But
although the fourth section offers “a strong, insistent urgency of tone, a vein of
moral exhortation and indictment, which is very moving,”25 Vaughan Williams
heavily abridges it, deleting all of the lines with the exception of line 141 (“—No,
no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours!”), line 171 (“Thou waitest for the spark
from heaven! And we”) and line 180 (“Ah! Do not we, wanderer! Await it too?”).
Indeed, Vaughan Williams does not accept the language after the poetic shift,
which, in contrast to what has gone before—“beautifully imaginative as the best
pastoral poetry of Milton or Keats”26—is bare and grimly abstract. In view of his
penchant for selecting and rearranging lines and texts to suit his own interpretative
purposes, and in view of his establishment, to this point, of a mellow pastoral
tone in a work that is unforgettably enchanting, lines such as those that follow
immediately after 131, angst-ridden and cognitively dissonant, are rejected (“For
what wears out the life of mortal men? / ’Tis that from change to change their being
rolls; / ’Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, / Exhaust the energy of strongest
souls / And numb the elastic powers”); as are lines such as 167–70 (“O life unlike
to ours! / Who fluctuate idly without term or scope, / Of whom each strives,
Example 6.4 An Oxford Elegy by Ralph Vaughan Williams, “causeway chill

moment” (vocal score; Oxford, 1952), p. 15
nor knows for what he strives, / And each half lives a hundred different lives; /
Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope”); and those that follow line 171
(“Light half-believers of our casual creeds, / Who never deeply felt, nor clearly
will’d, / Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, / Whose vague resolves
never have been fulfill’d; / For whom each year we see / Breeds new beginnings,
disappointments new; / Who hesitate and falter life away, / And lose to-morrow
the ground won to-day”); and lines such as 203–5 (“Before this strange disease of
modern life, / With its sick hurry, its divided aims, / Its heads o’ertax’d, its palsied
hearts, was rife”). It is through this procedure that Vaughan Williams privileges
his textual conception of the Scholar-Gipsy as “the shy, romantic figure, elusive,
diffident, and somewhat fey”27 of the first three sections of Arnold’s poem, not the
non-mythical sterner image of the fourth section into which he is modified, with
“one aim, one business, one desire,” or the classical images at the end of the fourth
section and of the fifth, where he is again invoked imaginatively vis-à-vis Dido
and the Tyrian traders. His music narrates a different reality, however.
The distillation of thought is embodied in a single simultaneity, D@ minor
in second inversion (three after letter T) (vocal score, p. 16; study score, p. 38),
against which the narrator articulates without pause lines 141, 171, and 180
(see above). It is here that Vaughan Williams fuses the end of his reading of
The Scholar-Gipsy with the beginning of Thyrsis, a compositional solution that
reflects the creation of the two poems. Arnold composed the latter poem—which
is about his loss of creative power—fifteen years after the former, and although
“they employ the same locale and are written in the same stanza and the same
pastoral mode,” writes Culler, they are different. The Scholar-Gipsy “is primarily
a Romantic dream-vision which creates an ideal figure who lives outside of time”
(that is, the Scholar-Gipsy), whereas [Thyrsis] “is an elegy about a human [being]
who lived in time and was thereby destroyed” (that is, Arnold’s friend, Arthur
Clough).28 Both poems are about the contest between permanence and change: the
alteration of the image of the Scholar-Gipsy in the former, the impermanence of
place and persons in the latter. To illuminate his interpretation of the first poem
and the transition to the second, Vaughan Williams subjects the fourth motif (d)
to a process of transformation in the long paragraph for chorus and orchestra
(from four after letter T to seven after letter V) wherein the conflation of the two
poems occurs. Whereas before the fourth motif (d) appeared in a D minor mode,
now it is presented in a C# minor mode (an enharmonic re-spelling of the single
simultaneity, D@ minor); before the fourth motif was essayed briefly by a solo
instrument, but now it unfolds in a protracted, gravely beautiful, polyphonic, and
imitative rendition for wordless chorus and orchestra; before the fourth motif was
associated with the beginning of the dream, but now it is recalled to represent a
place revisited (Example 6.5).
At the beginning of Thyrsis, which proceeds at letter V, Arnold wonders (in stanza
1) at the changes to the Oxford environs he is examining again after an absence of
fifteen years. Indeed, at first, he notes the physical alterations, and in line 6 he asks:
“Are ye too changed, ye hills?” However, as the poet continues his walk (in stanza
Example 6.5 An Oxford Elegy by Ralph Vaughan Williams, fusion of the two
Arnold poems (vocal score; Oxford, 1952), p. 16
2, lines 11–15), he is certain that they are not changed; but then in stanza 3, at line
22 (“Only, methinks, some loss of habit’s power”), the poet recognizes “that he
himself is subject to change” and perceives that the single elm (of lines 26–7) which
he so confidently expected to see is gone (“That single elm-tree bright / Against
the west—I miss it! is it gone?”). That the tree “has become a … symbol between
Thyrsis and the poet of the enduring validity of their youthful ideal” is clear from
lines 28–30: “We prized it dearly; while it stood, we said, / Our friend, the Gipsy-
Scholar, was not dead; / While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on”).29
The music that accompanies these stanzas reinforces the perspective not of Arnold
but of Vaughan Williams, who, truncating them to meet his own compositional
demands, eliminates the poetic progression from analysis to self-analysis. The
composer begins with lines 7–10, which reposition the locus of the poem in Oxford
and thus make the later poem immediately consonant with the earlier, rather than
with lines 1–6, which comment on the changes everywhere apparent. Commencing
at letter V, these lines are uttered by the narrator to the last portion of the musical
conflation of the two poems, which, after the reserved sublimity of the proceeding
measures, recedes into the background. As a version of the music that framed the
earlier dream-vision of the poet returns—but here the fourth motif (d) is presented
by solo clarinet (instead of bassoon and without the chorus) as it is accompanied
by the orchestral music described previously as “dream-like” (a repeated sequence
of incomplete chords played, this time, by the violins and violas)—lines 11–15 and
26–30 of stanzas 2 and 3 (see the preceding paragraph) are delivered by the narrator,
whereas lines 17–18 and 22–5 are omitted, as are lines 19–21 (“that sweet city with
her dreaming spires,” and so on), which, of course, were transferred to the first part
of the work.
Whether by calculated design or fortuitous occurrence, the insertion of the dream-
vision music at this point is singularly apposite, for the question about the tree (see
above) moves the poet from the physical dimension again toward the imaginative
sphere. When Arnold laments in line 31, “Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits
here,” he is not speaking of the Oxford environs but, as Culler indicates, of “the
depths of his own soul, with which he has been too infrequently in communion.”30
The composer, however, does not set line 31 or those that subsequently amplify it,
but deflects the poem away from its intended meaning. Instead, he chooses lines
38–40, 57–61, 62–70, and 71–7, which return the poet to the world of men and to
the scene of the rural idyll, respectively.
The complex of musical paragraphs in which these lines are distributed is
among the most ravishing of the work. The first paragraph profiles a thrice-repeated
progression of pungent, seventh-laden chords, syncopated over a pedal E (vocal
score, p. 19; study score, p. 45), that elaborate on the interval of the minor second so
integral to the third and fourth motifs (c and d). Succeeding the dream-vision music
(at three before letter X), the first progression (Agitato, quarter = 120) for orchestra
without chorus reflects lines 38–40 spoken by the narrator (“Needs must I, with
heavy heart / Into the world and wave of men depart / But Thyrsis of his own will
went away”). Prefaced by a fanfare-like flourish, the second (Animato) progression
is an orchestral repetition, for the most part, of the first one, minus the pedal E,
with the chorus singing in unison the syncopated minor seconds on an enraptured
“Ah,” as the narrator exclaims lines 57–9 (“So have I heard the cuckoo’s parting
cry, / From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees, / Come with the volleying
rain and tossing breeze”). The third progression (Tranquillo), too, is very similar to
the second and first, though this time the chorus sings in homophony line 60 (“The
bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I!”), while at the end the narrator poses the
question contained in line 61 (“Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go?”).
The second paragraph (vocal score, p. 21; study score, p. 50) introduces new
march-like music (Meno mosso) to disseminate lines 62–9 (“Soon will the high
Midsummer pomps come on,” etc.) sung cantabile by the chorus (SA). Based on a
variation of the fourth motif (d), the different harmonic context, however, changes
the interval relationships of its melodic content. For example, when the fourth motif
(d) appeared previously, say, in D minor (two after M) or in C# minor (four after T),
the initial pitches were 1, 2, 4, 5; but, here, in F major, the pitches become 5, 6, 1,
2. Thus the music is not new per se, but the setting has the quality of newness due,
perhaps, to the pivot from the minor to the major mode, the lovely orchestration, and
the duplets against triplets that enliven the texture. The abatement of the harmonic
rhythm at letter Aa (achieved through the change of harmony from every beat to
every measure) is reminiscent of a section in the fourth movement of A Sea Symphony
where minor gives way to major and duplets contest triplets. Here, however, minor
follows minor (A@ minor to B minor) in a broad progression that supports the choral
utterance of line 70 (“And the full moon, and the white evening-star”).
This paragraph culminates in a third (one before Bb) (vocal score, p. 25; study
score, p. 59) that corresponds to the orchestral music that accompanied “All the live
murmur of a summer’s day” (one before letter G). In D mode (quarter = 104), the
chorus, very animated but pianissimo, overlays the orchestral rustling with longer
mellifluous and imitative statements based on the shorter fragments of the third motif
(c) exposed in the orchestra, while the narrator exclaims lines 71–6 (“He hearkens
not! Light comer, he is flown!,” and so on). Thereafter, the music slows considerably
and stops on an accented chord (at letter Cc), where, in the subsequent dilatory
space, the narrator is heard to comment “But Thyrsis never more we swains shall
see” (line 77), after which follows a fortissimo excrescence (at letter Dd), Animato,
built upon earlier elements: the fragment of the third motif (c) permeating the lines
of the ecstatic choral writing and orchestral texture with its the fanfare-like flourish
and attractive passage-work.
As the music begins again to subside and to unwind (at one before letter Ee,
quarter = 88)—the orchestra and the chorus, repeating “nevermore,” continue to
parse fragments of the third motif (c) over a pedal D—the narrator moves to the
foreground, against music tinged now with a mellow resignation, to quote the lines
that are the elegiac crux of the poem (lines 102–3): “Thyrsis, let me give my grief its
hour / In the old haunt, and find our tree-topp’d hill!” What do these lines indicate?
That Arnold’s quest for the “single elm-tree bright” (refer to lines 26–7) can only
be accomplished by writing a poem within a poem. In other words, “it is not so
much a question of whether the tree is there as of whether he can see it. Essentially,
it is a question of [creative inspiration]. Has he been so long in the world that his
poetic powers have been completely dissipated, or do they still survive?”31 Therefore
Arnold returns to his search for the tree-topped hill through the process of writing a
smaller poem within a larger one, and a procession of lovely and intimate pictures,
richer and more detailed than those in The Scholar-Gipsy, is encountered, among
them the wood and slopes, dingles and hill-sides, the girl who unmoored their skiff
and the mowers who stood with suspended scythe to see them pass. Following his
own design, however, Vaughan Williams telescopes much of this section by deleting
many of the lines that recapitulate the themes already stated in the first four stanzas
(i.e., the poet’s knowledge of the countryside) and by going directly to lines 111–17,
which, together with lines 102–3, are combined into a single unit and stated (against
the music already described) by the narrator, who ends with line 130: “They are all
gone, and thou art gone as well!”
At this point, Arnold’s powers of inspiration seem to fail and the process of
writing becomes an arduous task, according to Culler, for he attempts to find the tree
through language moral and heroic, rather than lyric and idyllic, that corresponds
to, or parallels, the end of The Scholar-Gipsy.32 These two ideas—the failure of
his poetic effort and the resultant lapse into prosiness and stiff intellectuality—are
contained in the metaphors of stanzas 14 and 15, specifically lines 131–3 (“Yes, thou
art gone! and round me too the night / In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade,” and
so on) and lines 141, 143, and 144 (“And long the way appears, which seem’d so
short / And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air, / The mountain-tops where is the
throne of Truth”). These lines find their musical correlation in the two paragraphs
at six after letter Ff and three after letter Hh, respectively. The former (Andante con
moto) commences with the fanfare-like flourish by the orchestra which supports
the choral interjections of the text based on the second motif (b); the latter (Poco
largamente) uses the third motif (c) in repetitious triplets, sounding quite unlike
any other passage in the work, that perhaps telegraph the content of lines 146–7
(“Unbreachable the fort / Of the long-batter’d world”), which, along with the rest of
stanza 15, Vaughan Williams does not include.
Nor does the composer include the long elegiac reversal contained in the next
stanza (beginning at line 151), which, Culler elucidates, “is accomplished by
Arnold ‘hushing’ his false voice and assuming his true one”; that is, by giving up
his laborious attempt to recover the precious tree through the writing process, “he is
once again placed in his imaginative landscape and achieves his poetic vision.”33 As
indicated in lines 157–60 (“Quick! let me fly, and cross / Into yon farther field!—’Tis
done; and see, / … / Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree! the Tree!”), Arnold now
“flies”: he becomes like the Scholar-Gipsy in line 54 of the first poem (“Seen by rare
glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied”) and sees his tree again. However, we learn in
the subsequent stanza (line 165) that he cannot reach the tree of his quest, for the tree
is not something to be reached but is something else entirely. As the quest’s “happy
omen” of line 166 (“Yet, happy omen, hail!”), the tree is forever unattainable, and
“the quest itself, not the achievement of the quest, is the essence of its meaning.”34
When Arnold turns “to include his friend in [this] discovery,” line 171 (“Hear it, O
Thyrsis, still our tree is there!”), the poet “finds that [Thyrsis] cannot hear [him]”
because, in the words of lines 176, 177, and 180 (“now in happier air, / Wandering
with the great Mother’s train divine / … / Within a folding of the Apennine”),
he is dead.35 Discarding all of these lines, Vaughan Williams instead moves
immediately from stanza 15, lines 141, 143, and 144 to stanza 20, lines 191–2,
where, accompanied by the music last mentioned, they are divided into unequal
parts and spoken by the narrator: “There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here /
Sole in these fields!” against the orchestral bass triplets, pizzicato, using the third
motif (c); and “yet will I not despair” after the music pauses on an A@ minor chord,
which will slide directly to an A minor chord, reflecting the significant D@ minor/C#
shift that fused the two poems.
In the remainder of the poem, Arnold makes it clear that he shall not despair in
his friend’s absence, “for the sight of the tree against the western sky is a sign that
the Scholar-Gipsy still haunts the slopes,” outliving him. If he is “a wanderer still,
then why not me?” the poet asks. “Together with the Scholar-Gipsy [Arnold] will
pursue the ‘fugitive and gracious light’ which is their ideal.”36 Curiously, the poem
ends with three final stanzas added by the poet in which Thyrsis is resurrected. We
learn now that although he did leave and stayed for a time with “men of care,” he
never gave up the vision of the Scholar-Gipsy and was a wanderer until he died.
Indeed, at the very end of the poem it is his friend’s voice speaking words of
constant encouragement.
As he did earlier, Vaughan Williams engages in careful pruning to arrive at the
desired text for the conclusion of his work. After the last segment of line 192, the
composer selects all or some of lines 193, 195, 198–200, and 234–40 and organizes
them into a poetic construct of three sets contained in a final musical section of two
paragraphs (vocal score p. 34; study score p. 77). The first paragraph, a ruminative
and discursive version of the last, includes the entire construct of three sets of lines,
each enclosed by A minor chords, while the last, a magical condensation of the first,
repeats the last set only and ends with a fragment of the first motif (a) in the mode of
the opening, F. As the narrator utters the first set of lines (“Despair I will not, while
I yet descry / That lonely tree against the western sky. / Fields where soft sheep
from cages pull the hay, / Woods with anemones in flower till May, / Know him a
wanderer still”), the wordless chorus intones in a chant-like unison a lovely modal
melody (Largo, quarter = 72). After a pause, a threefold homophonic utterance
by the chorus, “Roam on!, Roam on!, Roam on!,” decorated by the orchestra,
accompanies the second set of lines spoken by the narrator (“Then let in thy voice
a whisper often come / To chase fatigue and fear”). An interlude by the orchestra,
sweetly singing, provides the background for the aspiration of the last set of lines
by the narrator, which the chorus repeats in the final magical paragraph to music
(as already mentioned) condensed from the first (“Why faintest thou? I wander’d
till I died. / Roam on! the light we sought is shining still. / Our tree yet crowns
the hill, / Our Scholar travels yet the loved hillside”). Comparable in effect to the
radiant conclusion of the Fifth Symphony, the final section of An Oxford Elegy,
with its modal-diatonic harmony and hymn-like strains contrasting so perfectly to

the exotic chromaticism of the earlier sections, can only be described as beautiful
beyond compare, and, long after the last notes have faded away into stillness, the
lingering afterglow remains.
Illumination of his General Purpose
In setting Arnold’s poetry, Vaughan Williams subjected it to incidental and significant

emendation. Regarding the former, he deleted single words or phrases and any
mention of Glanvill’s book or of the vagabond gipsies; and he altered the focus of
the poems to privilege the atmosphere of the Oxford environs and his conception of
the image of the Scholar-Gipsy as shy, diffident, and somewhat fey as he appears
in the first three sections of the earlier poem and as he haunts the pages of the later.
In making these emendations, the composer was simply following the literary
precedent of Arnold, who created his own condensed version of The Scholar-Gipsy
and, thus, despite the criticisms to the contrary, An Oxford Elegy represents a unified
textual structure. Regarding the latter, it is a question of what Vaughan Williams
did not retain, for he seemed to delete any lines that permit any autobiographical
interpretation, but their absence only causes speculation.
Vaughan Williams never gave up his early intention to become a composer,
even though he did not become a recognized success until his forties; the way was
arduous for him. He was 75 when he began working on An Oxford Elegy, and 80 by
the time it was published. Although the work appeared to be valedictory, little did the
musical world realize he would enjoy an Indian summer in the last years of his life
when he would be enormously prolific for a composer in his eighties.
Some of the impetus came from the happiness of his second marriage, to the
poet and writer Ursula Wood, which began in 1953. His first wife, Adeline, whom
he had married in 1897, had died in 1951 at the age of 80, having been an invalid
for many years. Both had been involved in the creation of An Oxford Elegy, which
had its origin in Harnham Down, the orchestral work prefaced with a verse from The
Scholar-Gipsy and written so long ago. Did the memory of his early struggles mix
with the underlying subject of Arnold’s pastoral vision?
With indefatigable energy Vaughan Williams produced the late harvest of
compositions that includes his greatest masterworks: The Pilgrim’s Progress (1951),
one of his operas, based on John Bunyan’s allegory of the same name; the incredibly
imaginative Sinfonia Antartica (1952), based upon his film music for Scott of the
Antarctic, for full orchestra and an absolutely stunning organ part, soprano soloist,
and women’s chorus; This Day (Hodie) (1954), the Christmas Cantata; and, finally,
Symphony No. 8 in D minor (1955) and Symphony No. 9 in E minor (1957).
An Oxford Elegy signaled these last achievements and embodied Vaughan
Williams’s reason for being. He had never given up the compositional quest. Indeed,
when he completed An Oxford Elegy, the light he sought was shining still.
Chapter 6 Appendix 1: The Scholar-Gipsy and Thyrsis by Matthew Arnold

as Set by Ralph Vaughan Williams
Lines excised by Vaughan Williams appear in italics; substituted words or lines in

the text, and editorial comments outside of it, are bracketed.
The Scholar-Gipsy [25 stanzas, 10 lines each]
1 Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill; [“Natural Scene”: 3 stanzas]
2 Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes!
3 No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed,
4 Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats,
5 Nor the cropp’d herbage [grasses] shoot another head.
6 But when the fields are still,
7 And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest,
8 And only the white sheep are sometimes seen
9 Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch’d green,
10 Come, shepherd, and again begin the quest!
11 Here, where the reaper was at work of late—

12 In this high field’s dark corner, where he leaves
13 His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruse,
14 And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves,
15 Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use—
16 Here will I sit and wait, [Lines 16–20 repeated by the choir]
17 While to my ear from uplands far away
18 The bleating of the folded flocks is borne,
19 With distant cries of reapers in the corn—
20 All the live murmur of a summer’s day.
21 Screen’d is this nook o’er the high, half-reap’d field,

22 And here till sun-down, shepherd! will I be.
23 Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep,
24 And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see
25 Pale pink convolvulus in tendrils creep;
26 And air-swept lindens yield
27 Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers
28 Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid,
29 And bower me from the August sun with shade;
30 And the eye travels down to Oxford’s towers.
…that sweet city with her dreaming spires, [Insert from Thysris, lines 19–21]
She needs not June for beauty’s heightening,
Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night [to-day]!
31 And near me on the grass lies Glanvil’s book— [“Imaginative Vision”: 10

stanzas]
32 Come, let me read the oft-read again!
33 The story of the Oxford scholar poor,
34 Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain,
35 Who, tired of knocking at preferment’s door,
36 One summer-morn forsook
37 His friends, and went to learn the gipsy-lore,
38 And roam’d the world with that wild brotherhood,
39 And came, as most men deem’d, to little good,
40 But came to Oxford and his friends no more.
41 But once, years after, in the country-lanes,

42 Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew,
43 Met him, and of his way of life enquired;
44 Whereat he answer’d, that the gipsy-crew,
45 His mates, had arts to rule as they desired
46 The workings of men’s brains,
47 And they can bind them to what thoughts they will.
48 “And I,” he said, “the secret of their art,
49 When fully learn’d, will to the world impart;
50 But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill.”
51 This said, he left them, and return’d no more.—

52 But rumours hung about the country-side,
53 That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray,
54 Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied,
55 In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey,
56 The same the gipsies wore.
57 Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring;
58 At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors,
59 On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock’d boors
60 Had found him seated at their entering,
61 But, ’mid their drink and clatter, he would fly.

62 And I myself seem half to know thy looks,
63 And put the shepherds, wanderer! on thy trace;
64 And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks
65 I ask if thou hast pass’d their quiet place;
66 Or in my boat I lie
67 Moor’d to the cool bank in the summer-heats,
68 ’Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills,
69 And watch the warm, green-muffled Cumnor hills,
70 And wonder if thou haunt’st their shy retreats.
71 For most, I know, thou lov’st retired ground!

72 Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe,
73 Returning home on summer-nights, have met
74 Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab-lock-hithe,
75 Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet,
76 As the punt’s rope chops round;
77 And leaning backward in a pensive dream,
78 And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers
79 Pluck’d in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers,
80 And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream.
81 And then they land, and thou art seen no more!—

82 Maidens, who from the distant hamlets come
83 To dance around the Fyfield elm in May,
84 Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam,
85 Or cross a stile into the public way.
86 Oft thou hast given them store
87 Of flowers—the frail-leaf’d, white anemony,
88 Dark bluebells drench’d with dews of summer eves,
89 And purple orchises with spotted leaves—
90 But none hath words she can report of thee.
91 And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time’s here

92 In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames,
93 Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass
94 Where black-wing’d swallows haunt the glittering Thames,
95 To bathe in the abandon’d lasher pass,
96 Have often pass’d thee near
97 Sitting upon the river bank o’ergrown;
98 Mark thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare,
99 Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air—
100 But, when they came from bathing, thou wast gone!
101 At some lone homestead in the Cumnor hills,

102 Where at her open door the housewife darns,
103 Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate
104 To watch the threshers in the mossy barns.
105 Children, who early range these slopes and late
106 For cresses from the rills,
107 Have known thee eying, all an April-day,
108 The springing pastures and the feeding kine;
109 And mark’d thee, when the stars come out and shine,
110 Through the long dewy grass move slow away.
111 In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood—

112 Where most the gipsies by the turf-edged way
113 Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see
114 With scarlet patches tagg’d and shreds of grey,
115 Above the forest-ground called Thessaly—
116 The blackbird, picking food,
117 Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all;
118 So often has he known thee past him stray,
119 Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither’d spray,
120 And, [Still] waiting for the spark from heaven to fall.
121 And once, in winter, on the causeway chill

122 Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go,
123 Have I not pass’d thee on the wooden bridge,
124 Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow,
125 Thy face tow’rd Hinksey and its wintry ridge?
126 And thou has climb’d the hill,
127 And gain’d the white brow of the Cumnor range;
128 Turn’d once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall,
129 The line of festal light in Christ-Church hall—
130 Then sought thy straw in some sequester’d grange.
131 But what—I dream! Two hundred years are flown [“Dream”: 1 stanza]
132 Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls,
133 And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe
134 That thou wert wander’d from the studious walls
135 To learn strange arts, and join a gipsy-tribe;
136 And thou from earth art gone
137 Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid—
138 Some country-nook, where o’er thy unknown grave
139 Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave,
140 Under a dark, red-fruited yew-tree’s shade.
141 —No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours! [“Validity of Vision”: 9
stanzas]
142 For what wears out the life of mortal men?
143 ’Tis that from change to change their being rolls;
144 ’Tis that repeated shocks, again, again,
145 Exhaust the energy of strongest souls
146 And numb the elastic powers.
147 Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen,
148 And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit.
149 To the just-pausing Genius we remit
150 Our worn-out life, and are—what we have been.
151 Thou has not lived, why should’st thou perish so?
152 Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire;
153 Else wert thou long since number’d with the dead!
154 Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire!
155 The generations of thy peers are fled,
156 And we ourselves shall go;
157 But thou possessest an immortal lot,
158 And we imagine thee exempt from age
159 And living as thou liv’st on Glanvil’s page,
160 Because thou hadst—what we, alas! have not.
161 For early didst thou leave the world, with powers
162 Fresh, undiverted to the world without,
163 Firm to their mark, not spent on other things;
164 Free from sick fatigue, the languid doubt,
165 Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings.
166 Of life unlike to ours!
167 Who fluctuate idly without term or scope,
168 Of whom each strives, nor know for what he strives,
169 And each half lives a hundred different lives;
170 Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope.

171 Thou waitest for the spark from heaven! and we,
172 Light half-believers of our casual creeds,
173 Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will’d
174 Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds,
175 Whose vague resolves never have been fulfill’d;
176 For whom each year we see
177 Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new;
178 Who hesitate and falter life away,
179 And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day—
180 Ah! do not we, wanderer! await it too?
181 Yes, we await it!—but it still delays,

182 And then we suffer! and amongst us one,
183 Who most has suffer’d, takes dejectedly
184 His seat upon the intellectual throne;
185 And all his store of sad experience he
186 Lays bare of wretched days;
187 Tells us his misery’s birth and growth and signs,
188 And how the dying spark of hope was fed,
189 And how the breast was soothed, and how the head,
190 And all his hourly varied anodynes.
191 This for our wisest! and we others pine,

192 And wish the long unhappy dream would end,
193 And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear;
194 With close-lipp’d patience for our only friend,
195 Sad patience, too near neighbour to despair—
196 But none has hope like thine!
197 Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray,
198 Roaming the country-side, a truant boy,
199 Nursing thy project in unclouded joy,
200 And every doubt long blown by time away.
201 O born in days when wits were fresh and clear,

202 And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames;
203 Before this strange disease of modern life,
204 With its sick hurry, its divided aims,
205 Its heads o’ertax’d, its palsied hearts, was rife—
206 Fly hence, our contact fear!
207 Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood!
208 Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern
209 From her false friend’s approach in Hades turn,
210 Wave us away, and keep thy solitude!
211 Still nursing the unconquerable hope,

212 Still clutching the inviolable shade,
213 With a free, onward impulse brushing through,
214 By night, the silver’d branches of the glade—
215 Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue,
216 On some mild pastoral slope
217 Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales
218 Freshen thy flowers as in former years
219 With dew, or listen with enchanted ears,
220 From the dark dingles, to the nightingales!
221 But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly!

222 For strong the infection of our mental strife,
223 Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest;
224 And we should win thee from thy own fair life,
225 Like us distracted, and like us unblest.
226 Soon, soon thy cheer would die,
227 Thy hopes grown timorous, and unfix’d thy powers,
228 And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made;
229 And then thy glad perennial youth would fade,
230 Fade, and grown old at last, and die like ours.

231 Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles! [“End-Symbol”: 2
stanzas]
232 —As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea,
233 Descried at sunrise an emerging prow
234 Lifting the cool-hair’d creepers stealthily,
235 The fringes of a southward-facing brown
236 Among the Aegean isles;
237 And saw the merry Grecian coaster come,
238 Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine,
239 Green, bursting figs, and tunnies steep’d in brine—
240 And knew the intruders on his ancient home,

241 The young light-hearted masters of the waves—
242 And snatch’d his rudder, and shook out more sail;
243 And day and night held on indignantly
244 O’er the blue Midland waters with the gale,
245 Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily,
246 To where the Atlantic raves
247 Outside the western straits; and unbent sails
248 There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam,
249 Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come;
250 And on the beach undid his corded bales.
Thyrsis [24 stanzas, 10 lines each]

A Monody, to commemorate the author’s friend,
Arthur Hugh Clough, who died at Florence, 1861.
1 How changed is here each spot man makes or fills!
2 In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the same;
3 The village street its haunted mansion lacks,
4 And from the sign is gone Sibylla’s name,
5 And from the roofs the twisted chimney-stacks—
6 Are ye too changed, ye hills?
7 See, ’tis no foot of unfamiliar men
8 To-night [To-day] from Oxford up your pathway strays!
9 Here came I often, often, in old days—
10 Thyrsis and I; we still had Thyrsis then.
11 Runs it not here, the track by Childsworth Farm,

12 [Up] Past the high wood, to where the elm-tree crowns
13 The hill behind whose ridge the sunset flames?
14 The signal-elm, that looks on Ilsley Downs,
15 The Vale, the three lone weirs, the youthful Thames?—
16 This winter-eve is warm,
17 Humid the air! leafless, yet soft as spring,
18 The tender purple spray on copse and briers!

19 And that sweet city with her dreaming spires, [Lines 19–21 transferred to above]
20 She needs not June for beauty’s heightening,
21 Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night [to-day]!

22 Only, methinks, some loss of habit’s power
23 Befalls me wandering through this upland dim.
24 Once pass’d I blindfold here, at any hour;
25 Now seldom come I, since I came with him.
26 That single elm-tree bright
27 Against the west—I miss it! is it gone?
28 We prized it dearly; while it stood, we said,
29 Our friend, the Gipsy-Scholar, was not dead;
30 While the tree lived, he in these fields lived on.
31 Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here,

32 But once I knew each field, each flower, each stick;
33 And with the country-folk acquaintance made
34 By barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick.
35 Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first assay’d.
36 Ah me! this many a year
37 My pipe is lost, my shepherd’s holiday!—
38 Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heart
39 Into the world and wave of men depart;
40 But Thyrsis of his own will went away.
41 It irked him to be here, he could not rest.

42 He loved each simple joy the country yields,
43 He loved his mates; but yet he could not keep,
44 For that a shadow lour’d on the fields,
45 Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep.
46 Some life of men unblest
47 He knew, which made him droop, and fill’d his head.
48 He went; his piping took a troubled sound
49 Of storms that rage outside our happy ground;
50 He could not wait their passing, he is dead.
51 So, some tempestuous morn in early June,

52 When the year’s primal burst of bloom is o’er,
53 Before the roses and the longest day—
54 When garden-walks and all the grassy floor
55 With blossoms red and white of fallen May
56 And chestnut-flowers are strewn—
57 So have I heard the cuckoo’s parting cry,
58 From the wet field, through the vext garden-trees,

59 Come with the volleying rain and tossing breeze:
60 The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I! [Choir]
61 Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go?

62 Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come on, [Choir sings lines
62–70]
63 Soon will the musk carnations break and swell,
64 Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon,
65 Sweet-William with his homely cottage-smell,
66 And stocks in fragrant blow;
67 Roses that down the alleys shine afar,
68 And open, jasmine-muffled lattices,
69 And groups under the dreaming garden-trees,
70 And the full moon, and the white evening-star.
71 He hearkens not! light comer, he is flown!

72 What matter it? next year he will return,
73 And we shall have him in the sweet spring-days
74 With whitening hedges, and uncrumpling fern,
75 And blue-bells trembling by the forest-ways,
76 And scent of hay new-mown.
77 But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see;
78 See him come back, and cut a smoother reed,
79 And blow a strain the world at last shall heed—
80 For Time, not Corydon, hath conquer’d thee!
81 Alack, for Corydon no rival now!—

82 But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate,
83 Some good survivor with his flute would go,
84 Piping a ditty sad for Bion’s fate;
85 And cross the unpermitted ferry’s flow,
86 And relax Pluto’s brow,
87 And make leap up with joy the beauteous head
88 Of Proserpine, among whose crowned head
89 Are flowers first open’d on Sicilian air,
90 And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead.
91 O easy access to the hearer’s grace

92 When Dorian shepherds sang to Prosperpine! [sic]
93 For she herself had trod Sicilian fields,
94 She knew the Dorian water’s gush divine,
95 She knew each lily white which Enna yields,
96 Each rose with blushing face;
97 She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain.

98 But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard!
99 Her foot the Cumnor cowslips never stirr’d;
100 And we should tease her with our plaint in vain!
101 Well! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be,

102 Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour
103 In the old haunt, and find our tree-topp’d hill!
104 Who, if not I, for questing here hath power?
105 I know the wood which hides the daffodil,
106 I know the Fyfield tree,
107 I know what white, what purple fritillaries
108 The grassy harvest of the river-fields,
109 Above by Eynsham, down by Sandford, yields,
110 And what sedged brooks are Thames’s tributaries;
111 I know these slopes; who knows them if not I?—

112 But many a dingle on the loved hill-side,
113 With thorns once studded, old, white-blossom’d trees,
114 Where thick the cowslips grew, and far descried
115 High tower’d the spikes of purple orchises,
116 Hath since our day put by
117 The coronals of that forgotten time;
118 Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy’s team,
119 And only in the hidden brookside gleam
120 Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime.

121 Where is the girl, who by the boatman’s door,
122 Above the locks, above the boating throng,
123 Unmoor’d our skiff when through the Wytham flats,
124 Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among
125 And darting swallows and light water-gnats,
126 We track’d the shy Thames shore?
127 Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell
128 Of our boat passing heaved the river-grass,
129 Stood with suspended scythe to see us pass?—
130 They all are gone, and thou are gone as well!

131 Yes, thou art gone! and round me too the night [Choir sings lines 131–3]
132 In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade.
133 I see her veil draw soft across the day,
134 I feel her slowly chilling breath invade
135 The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent with grey;
136 I feel her finger light
137 Laid pausefully upon life’s headlong train;—

138 The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew,
139 The heart less bounding at emotion new,
140 And hope, once crush’d, less quick to spring again.
141 And long the way appears, which seem’d so short [Choir sings lines
141, 143 and 144]
142 To the less practised eye of sanguine youth;
143 And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air,
144 The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth,
145 Tops in life’s morning-sun so bright and bare!
146 Unbreachable the fort
147 Of the long-batter’d world uplifts its wall;
148 And strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows,
149 And near and real the charm of thy repose,
150 And night as welcome as a friend would fall.

151 But hush! the upland hath a sudden loss
152 Of quiet!—Look, adown the dusk hill-side,
153 A troop of Oxford hunters going home,
154 As in old days, jovial and talking, ride!
155 From hunting with the Berkshire hounds they come.
156 Quick! let me fly, and cross
157 Into yon farther field!—’Tis done; and see,
158 Back’d by the sunset, which doth glorify
159 The orange and pale violet evening-sky,

160 Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree! the Tree!
161 I take the omen! Eve lets down her veil,
162 The white fog creeps from bush to bush about,
163 The west unflushes, the high stars grown bright,
164 And in the scatter’d farms the lights come out.
165 I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night,
166 Yet, happy omen, hail!
167 Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno-vale
168 (For there thine earth-forgetting eyelids keep
169 The morningless and unawakening sleep
170 Under the flowery oleanders pale),
171 Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there!—

172 Ah, vain! These English fields, this upland dim,
173 These brambles pale with mist engarlanded,
174 That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him;
175 To a boon southern country he is fled,
176 And now in happier air,

177 Wandering with the great Mother’s train divine
178 (And purer or more subtle soul than thee,
179 I trow the mighty Mother doth not see)
180 Within a folding of the Apennine,

181 Thou hearest the immortal chants of old!—
182 Putting his sickle to the perilous grain
183 In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king,
184 For thee the Lityerses-song again
185 Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing;
186 Sings his Sicilian fold,
187 His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes—
188 And how a call celestial round him rang,
189 And heavenward from the fountain-brink he sprang,
190 And all the marvel of the golden skies.
191 There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here

192 Sole in these fields! yet will I not despair.
193 Despair I will not, while I yet descry
194 ’Neath the mild canopy of English air
195 That lonely tree against the western sky.
196 Still, still these slopes, ’tis clear,
197 Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee!
198 Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the hay,
199 Woods with anemonies in flower till May,
200 Know him a wanderer still; then why not me?
201 A fugitive and gracious light he seeks,

202 Shy to illumine; and I seek it too.
203 This does not come with houses or with gold,
204 With place, with honour, and a flattering crew;
205 ’Tis not in the world’s market bought and sold—
206 But the smooth-slipping weeks
207 Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired;
208 Out of the heed of mortals he is gone,
209 He wends unfollow’d, he must house alone;
210 Yet on he fares, by his own heart inspired.
211 Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest was bound;

212 Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour!
213 Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest,
214 If men esteem’d thee feeble, gave thee power,
215 If men procured thee trouble, gave thee rest.
216 And this rude Cumnor ground,

217 Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields,
218 Here cam’st thou in thy jocund youthful time,
219 Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime!
220 And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields.
221 What though the music of thy rustic flute

222 Kept not for long its happy, country tone;
223 Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note
224 Of men, contention-tost, of men who groan,
225 Which task’d thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat—
226 It fail’d, and thou wast mute!
227 Yet hadst thou always visions of our light,
228 And long with men of care thou couldst not stay,
229 And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way,
230 Left human haunt, and on alone till night.

231 Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here!
232 ’Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore,
233 Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home.
234 —Then through the great town’s harsh, heart-wearying roar,
235 Let in thy voice a whisper often come,
236 To chase fatigue and fear;
237 Why faintest thou? I wander’d till I died. [Narrator and Choir]
238 Roam on! The light we sought is shining still.
239 Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet crowns the hill,
240 Our Scholar travels yet the love hill-side.
Chapter 6 Appendix 2: Catalogue Entries and Descriptions of Harnham

Down and An Oxford Elegy
57278. VAUGHAN WILLIAMS MANUSCRIPTS (SECOND COLLECTION).

Vol. XIV. ff.52. Largest size 352 × 269 mm.
1. ff. 1–39v. Four Impressions for Orchestra. “In the New Forest”; [1902–1903].
(a) I. “Burley Heath”; [1903]. Full score. ff. 1–15v;-- (b) II. “The Solent”; [1902–
1903]. Full score. With pencil and blue and red crayon markings. “Withdrawn”
(f. 16). ff. 16–39v.
2. ff. 41–52. Two Impressions for Orchestra. I. “Harnham Down”; 1904–1907.

Full score. With pencil and blue and red crayon markings. “Withdrawn” (f. 41).
The title pages of each of these manuscripts appear as follows.
1(a): In the New Forest / Four Impressions for Orchestra / by R. Vaughan

Williams / I. Burley Heath;
1(b): Four Impressions for Orchestra / “In the New Forest” / No. II. “The
Solent” / [quotation] “Passion and sorrow in the deep seas voice / A mighty
mystery saddening all the wind” / Philip Marston / by / R. Vaughan Williams
/ [bottom, right hand corner] 10 Barton St/Westminster/London SW; and
2: 2 Impressions / for Orchestra / I Harnham Down / [quotation] “Here will
I sit and wait / While to my ear from uplands far away / the bleating of the
folded flocks is borne / with distant cries of reapers in the corn—/ all the
live murmur of a summers day.” / M. Arnold / [bottom, right hand corner]
R. Vaughan Williams / 13 Cheyne Walk / Chelsea SW.
Harnham Down is bound (as are so many of the Vaughan Williams manuscripts
at the British Library) in red boards with red leather used for the corners and the
spine that features embossed gold lettering. The work has been penned in black ink
(with emendations and additions in red ink/crayon and blue crayon) on 20-stave
manuscript paper, and is fairly neat in appearance. Please note:
• fol. 41r. Title page, with the text as indicated above.

• fol. 41v. Blank.
• fol. 42r. Features two systems separated by a double slash. The first system
is orchestrated for eleven instruments (“2 flauti, 1 oboe, 1 corno anglais, 2
clarinetti in B, 2 fagotti, 2 corni in F, violin I, violin II, viola, violoncello,
contrabassi”). The second system exhibits five staves for “clar in B, fagotti,
cor in F, viola” and “contrabassi.”
• fol. 46v. Features a two-measure, six-stave paste-over, labeled 47.
• fol. 48r. Features an entire manuscript page, labeled 49, pasted over it.
Therefore, fol. 48v became fol. 49v.
• fol. 51r. Features two systems separated by a double slash. The first is
orchestrated for eleven instruments (same as above), while the second is
orchestrated for violin I, violin I, viola, violoncello and contrabassi.
50473, 50474. VAUGHAN WILLIAMS MANUSCRIPTS, Vols. CXIII, CXIV.

“An Oxford Elegy”, for speaker, small chorus and small orchestra. Words
adapted from Matthew Arnold, The Scholar Gipsy and Thyrsis. Autograph.
First performed privately at The White Gates, Dorking, 20 Nov. 1949. First
public performance at The Queen’s College, Oxford, 19 June 1952. Vocal score
published 1952. Kennedy, 1982, pp. 198–9; Dickinson, 1963, pp. 464–5.
50473. Vol. CXIII(ff. 70). Vocal scores, etc.

(1) Chorus parts. ff. 1–16;- (2) Two vocal
scores. Partly typewritten. ff. 17–40b, 43–
67;- (3) Rough vocal score. One conjoint
bifolium, with pastedown, headed ‘Scholar
Gipsy’. ff. 68–70b.
50474 A. Vol. CXIV A(ff. 18). Rough full

score. Imperfect, by the loss of two folios
between f. 16b and f. 17 and of four or more
folios at its end.
50474 B. Vol. CXIV B(ff. ii+23). Full

score. Annotated at the end (f. 22b) by the
conductors of the first Oxford and London
performances, Bernard Rose, 19 June 1952,
and John Churchill, 22 Mar. 1953. A further
autograph full score is in the Bodleian
Library. Large folio.
A perusal of 50473 shows that it contains the following (number of folios = 70):
1. Soprano chorus part, fols 1r–4v. Folio 1r is title page: “[top left-hand corner
in pencil] Make 4 copies [top right-hand corner in black ink] Soprano /
Chorus / [middle of page] An Oxford Elegy / R Vaughan Williams.” Folio
1v is blank; music begins on fol. 2r. Melody only, with cues; no piano
accompaniment. Written on 12-stave paper in black ink. Rehearsal letters
are in pencil.
2. Alto chorus part, fols 5r–7v. There is no title page here, as it may be found
at the end. Music begins on fol. 5r: “[bottom of f. 5r in pencil] Make 4
copies.” Melody only, with cues; no piano accompaniment. Written on
12-stave paper in black ink. Rehearsal letters are in pencil. Folio 8r is blank;
fol. 8v is an end title page: “R Vaughan Williams/Oxford Elegy/Alto.”
3. Tenor chorus part, fols 9r–12r. Folio 9r is title page: “[top right-hand corner]
R Vaughan Williams / [between this and the title in pencil] Make 3 copies /
[middle of page] An Oxford Elegy/Tenor Chorus.” Folio 9v is blank; music
begins on fol. 10r. Melody only, with cues; no piano accompaniment.
Written on 12-stave paper in black ink. Rehearsal letters are in pencil. Folio
12v is blank.
4. Bass chorus part, fols 13r–16r. Folio 13r is the title page: “[top right-hand
corner] Bass. / [middle of page] R Vaughan Williams / An Oxford Elegy /
Bass chorus / [bottom middle of page in pencil] Make 3 copies.” Folios 13v
and 14r are blank. The music begins on fol. 14v. Melody only, with cues; no
piano accompaniment. Written on 12-stave paper in black ink. Rehearsal
letters are in pencil. Folio 16v is blank.
5. Piano-vocal score, fols 17r–40v. Written on 12-stave paper in black ink.
Annotations in pencil and red ink. The red ink has been used to indicate
those passages that are for rehearsal only and for rehearsal letters. The
speaker’s text has been typewritten and pasted in the manuscript. Folios
41r–42v contain no musical notation.
6. Piano-vocal score, fols 43r–66v (an earlier score). Folio 43r is the title
page; fols 43v–44v contain no musical notation; the music begins on fol.
45r. Written on 12-stave paper in black ink. Emendations in pencil. The
speaker’s text is handwritten. The manuscript is very messy and includes
many paste-overs. In places, the handwriting is illegible. The initial alto
line uses an A@ rather than the ultimate G#.
7. A few pages of sketches, fols 68r–70v.
Add. MS. 50474A contains an incomplete full score (fols 1r–18v)
(number of folios = 18). Written on 24-stave orchestral paper in black ink.
Emendations completed in pencil. This version features the A@ rather than
a G# in the initial alto motif. Folios 5r–5v feature no musical notation;
fol. 8r has been crossed out. The manuscript ends at fol. 18v (p. 29 of the
published vocal score).
Add. MS. 50474B contains a complete full score wrapped in an Oxford
University Press (Music Department) (brown paper) jacket (fols 1r–22v)
(number of folios = ii+23). In fact, it appears to be the manuscript copy that
was used by the editor/compositor (Roy Douglas) to prepare the published
version and that was available for hire. Written on 28-stave orchestral
paper in blue-black (or dark blue) ink with emendations in blue crayon
and pencil. Most of the speaker’s text, with the exception of cue lines, is
handwritten in pencil. Folio 9r features no musical notation.
Notes
1 Ernest Newman, The Sunday Times, 12 April 1953.

2 Ursula Vaughan Williams, R.V.W.: A Biography of Ralph Vaughan Williams
(London, 1964), p. 321. This performance was given by the Eglesfield Musical
Society Chamber Orchestra, conducted by Bernard Rose.
3 The Tudor Singers and their conductor Harry Stubbs gave the first private
performance. Hugh Cobbe, Letters of Ralph Vaughan Williams 1895–1958 (Oxford,
2008), p. 428, n. 4. Kennedy qualifies this by indicating the participants as Steuart
Wilson (speaker), the Tudor Singers, Schwiller String Quartet and Michael Mullinar
(pianoforte), conducted by Vaughan Williams. Michael Kennedy, A Catalogue of
the Works of Ralph Vaughan Williams, 2nd ed. (Oxford, 1996), p. 187.
5 Ibid., pp. 297–8.
6 Newman. Michael Kennedy and Vaughan Williams thought Newman took the
opportunity to demonstrate in print his knowledge of the poems. See Cobbe, letter
611, p. 523, from Vaughan Williams to Michael and Eslyn Kennedy (“I agree
that E.N. probably really wanted to show how much he knew about the poem”).
Needless to say, Vaughan Williams was not in the habit of offering an exclusive
interpretation of the meaning of his music; rather, he permitted listeners to approach
it in their own way. For example, see Michael Kennedy, The Works of Ralph
Vaughan Williams (London, 1964), pp. 305–6, 320, and 359; and Wilfrid Mellers,
Vaughan Williams and the Vision of Albion (London, 1989), pp. 206–7. The London
performance was presented by Clive Carey (speaker), St. Martin’s Cantata Choir
and Orchestra, conducted by John Churchill. Kennedy, A Catalogue of the Works of
Ralph Vaughan Williams, p. 187.
7 Byron Adams, “Biblical Texts in the Works of Vaughan Williams,” in Alain Frogley
(ed.), Vaughan Williams Studies (Cambridge, 1996), p. 107.
8 Lionel Trilling, Matthew Arnold (New York, 1939; reprinted 1958), pp. 138–9.
Trilling writes: “Those who are moved by his effort to come to grips with important
problems, to think as well as feel in verse, to transmute emotion into thought,
thought into emotion, are inclined to overlook the frequent failure of the effort,
the lapses into prosiness and stiff intellectuality. But there is one mood that assures
Arnold the lyric gift—the mood of self-commiseration. Then the stiffness vanishes
and he becomes truly a poet.” Trilling’s biography is an early and unsurpassed
study of Arnold’s thought; it is the standard critical work on Arnold. Park Honan
produced the definitive biography of the poet, Matthew Arnold: A Life (New York,
1981).
9 Adeline Vaughan Williams, letter to René Gatty, April 1899; in Ursula Vaughan
Williams, R.V.W., p. 57.
10 Kennedy, A Catalogue of the Works of Ralph Vaughan Williams, p. 42. The date is
Kennedy’s suggestion. The manuscript (Add. MS. 57283) is an imperfect condensed
score.
11 Ibid., p. 23.
12 Harnham Down is the first movement of Two Impressions for Orchestra that
Vaughan Williams began in 1904 and finished in 1907; the second movement, The
Woods of Westermain, has not survived. All of the manuscripts, housed in the British
Library along with most of Vaughan Williams’s other papers, were donated in 1960
by the widow of the composer; the original bequest forms British Library Add. MS.
50361–50482, but many more items have since been added to the collection. The
catalogue entry and my description of the manuscript may be seen in Chapter 6
Appendix 2.
13 The application of Culler’s explication of Arnold’s poems—see A. Dwight Culler,
Imaginative Reason: The Poetry of Matthew Arnold (New Haven, CT, 1966)—is
mine alone. Quotation marks are used to indicate excerpts from Arnold’s poems and
from Culler’s volume.
14 The genesis of The Scholar-Gipsy may be found in The Vanity of Dogmatizing
(1661) by Joseph Glanvill, which Arnold had obtained in 1844. A few sentences
from an abbreviated portion of the work, which originally preceded Arnold’s poem,
summarize Glanvill’s concept: “There was very lately a lad in the University of
Oxford, who was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there; and at last to join
himself to a company of vagabond gipsies. … After he had been a pretty while [with
the gipsies], there chanced to ride by a couple of scholars, who had formerly been
of his acquaintance. … He gave [the scholars] an account of the necessity which
drove him to that kind of life, and told them that [the gipsies] had a traditional kind
of learning among them, and could do wonders by the power of imagination, their
fancy binding that of others: that himself had learned much of their art, and when
he had compassed the whole secret, he intended … to leave their company, and
give the world an account of what he had learned.” In John Bryson (ed.), Matthew
Arnold: Poetry and Prose (Cambridge, MA, 1967), p. 790.
15 Culler, p. 183 and pp. 253 and 260. The idea of a quest—or journey, if you will—is
ubiquitous in Arnold’s poetry.
16 Ibid., p. 183.
17 Ibid., p. 185.
18 The reader is referred to the vocal score and to the orchestral study score published
by Oxford University Press in 1952 and 1982, respectively.
19 Culler, p. 184.
20 Ibid., pp. 184 and 186.
21 This passage began as an eight-measure incomplete sketch; see fol. 53v in Add. MS.
50473. See the catalogue entry and my description of the autographs in Chapter 6
Appendix 2.
22 Culler, p. 184.
23 Ibid., p. 185.
24 Ibid., p. 186.
25 Ibid., p. 187.
26 Ibid., p. 186.
27 Ibid., p. 188.
28 Ibid., p. 250.
29 Ibid., pp. 255–6.
30 Ibid., p. 256.
31 Ibid., pp. 256–7.
32 Ibid., p. 259.
33 Ibid.
34 Ibid., p. 260.
35 Ibid., p. 262.
36 Ibid.
Chapter 7
“So great a beauty on these English fields”:
Requiem da Camera and Gerald Finzi
(1901–1956)
While still in his teens he had rejected his heredity and chosen his environment,
which he never ceased to compose alongside his music. Both music and environment
were to be pursued as wholly indigenous English constructs. As we should say
today, he invented himself. (Stephen Banfield)1
While Still in his Teens
It has often been written that the stimulus for Finzi’s Requiem da Camera, an early
work for small mixed chorus, baritone soloist and chamber orchestra, was the death
of Ernest Bristow Farrar (1885–1918), Finzi’s first teacher of composition, who was
killed in action during World War One.2 A gifted musician and organist at Christ
Church, Harrogate, where Finzi was living at the time, Farrar had studied with
Charles Villiers Stanford at the Royal College of Music from 1905 to 1909. There,
as a student in the intoxicating atmosphere of London, Farrar was surrounded by
the best musical talent of his generation, none of whom was more important than
Ralph Vaughan Williams, a rising composer during this period but later the prime
representative of the English Musical Renaissance. It was this milieu and all that
it represented to which the enthusiastic, urbane, and young Farrar introduced the
impressionable and introverted Finzi, who had begun his pupilage in 1914 at the
age of thirteen. Is it any wonder, then, that Finzi, already aware of the transience and
uncertainty of life because of the untimely deaths of his father and three brothers,
was deeply shocked when his mentor and friend was killed in battle only a few days
after arriving in France? It had taken two years to prepare Farrar for the realities of
battle and only two days on the Front to kill him; indeed, Farrar’s senseless death
occurred only six weeks before the signing of the Armistice.
While it is true that Requiem da Camera was dedicated to Farrar’s memory, as
the autograph manuscripts disclose (but surely also, tacitly, to other artists killed
or maimed in the Great War, such as Brooke, Butterworth, and Gurney), it may
be that the work was not merely a reflection of an intense and private grief, but
also an early result of Finzi’s attempt to remake his identity. As Stephen Banfield
has argued so eloquently and persuasively in Gerald Finzi: An English Composer,
Finzi was already engaged in self-construction by the time he came to write the
Requiem. To reiterate Banfield: “While still in his teens he had rejected his heredity
and chosen his environment, which he never ceased to compose alongside his
music. Both music and environment were to be pursued as wholly indigenous
English constructs. As we should say today, he invented himself.”3
He Had Chosen his Environment
Finzi composed Requiem da Camera while he resided in one of the most beautiful
regions of England, the Cotswolds, so marvelously attractive because of its
topography and vernacular architecture, and so meaningful to him because of
the composers associated with it, chiefly Elgar, Gurney, Holst, Parry, and, most
significantly, Vaughan Williams, whom, because of Farrar’s influence, he had come
to adore. Indeed, he had become so inebriated with Vaughan Williams and his status
as the leader of the English pastoral school that he insisted on visiting the great
composer’s birthplace at Down Ampney, Gloucestershire, in 1921 prior to moving
to the region to absorb its zeitgeist and to find himself as a composer.4 Already
Finzi’s early music was influenced by Vaughan Williams, particularly by the
Pastoral Symphony. But during this period the aspiring composer attended most of
the Three Choirs Festivals, and at Worcester in 1923 he was so moved by Vaughan
Williams’s splendid motet Lord, Thou Hast Been Our Refuge that he echoed it in
his non-religious Requiem.5 Finzi was not interested in the form of the work—
“a setting of Psalm 90, Lord, Thou hast been our refuge, … by blending a verse
of Watts’s metrical paraphrase with selected verses of the Prayer Book Version,
develops as a miniature fantasia of declamation and polyphony, circling round
two separate and spaced-out strophes of the hymn-tune, St. Anne, and converging
in the second”6—but in a specific melodic fragment and in its harmonic beauty.
Moreover, labor on this important composition prompted him to contact Vaughan
Williams to elicit the criticism of a song he had composed in January 1923, a setting
of Hardy’s “Only a Man Harrowing Clods,” which became its third movement.7 His
letter was the first of many in a correspondence that grew over the years wherein
Vaughan Williams advised Finzi about his works and, in time, sought thoughts
about his own compositions.8 At any rate, in 1922, full of English pastoralism, the
young composer moved to the Cotswolds, settling at King’s Mill House, Painswick.
There, Finzi encountered an extraordinary spirit of place, to which he was destined
to contribute, and the many artists, musicians, and poets who were to influence him
deeply; and there, Finzi became “ardently English.”9
When Finzi began to work on his large-scale Requiem da Camera, the only
multi-movement work for chorus in his oeuvre, he was completely immersed in
English poetry, which had become and was to remain the deepest and most abiding
pursuit among his literary interests—his book collection grew eventually to 4,000
volumes of verse and other literature and was donated after his death to Reading
University Library, where it survives in the Finzi Book Room. It was Thomas
Hardy (1840–1928) to whom Finzi was drawn unyieldingly—and to whom his
Requiem da Camera and Gerald Finzi (1901–1956) 179
name is most closely linked, not least because of the many glorious song settings—
because he identified with, among other things, Hardy’s feeling for England, for
the land and its people and all that has made them what they are, a feeling at once
elegiac and quietly sustaining.
This aesthetic is a key to understanding Requiem da Camera, since Finzi
selected poems for his setting that were consonant with it: poems by Hardy, of
course, and by Wilfrid Gibson (1878–1962) and John Masefield (1878–1967).
Each of these men, according to his own philosophic bent, concentrates his vision
on the natural landscape of England. In Lament, Gibson “foresees the pain of his
response to the land” after the cessation of war, as opposed to Masefield who, in
August, 1914, “contemplates its intrinsic goodness in dreaded anticipation of war,”
while Hardy’s In Time of “The Breaking of Nations” “renders the inevitability of
war irrelevant to the enduring virtues of the land.”10
England, the land, the people—Finzi had chosen his environment indeed,
“which he never ceased to compose alongside his music.” The Cotswolds were
the locus of his activities at the moment and so important to his intellectual
formation, though later, after a proper apprenticeship in London with R.O. Morris
of the Royal College of Music, the great pedagogue of compositional technique
and historical musicology, Finzi would reconstruct his Eden-like existence at
Ashmansworth, high on the Berkshire Downs overlooking a twenty-five-mile
stretch of country towards Winchester in the south. Now, however, steeped in the
modal-diatonic idiom of Vaughan Williams, his music became intensely layered
with a rich complex of meanings.
Alongside his Music
“The composition of almost every one of Finzi’s works was spread over a
considerable number of years,” recalls Howard Ferguson, the editor of his music
and a lifelong friend, “for he always had in his desk the material of many ‘works
in progress.’ Each of these would be added to from time to time, as the mood
took him, until a large batch of sketches, generally quite discontinuous, was built
up for a particular work. This work would then be taken in hand, the gaps filled
in, and the sketches and alternatives reduced to a single continuous whole.”11
Furthermore, Banfield qualifies, “when he did eventually revise or complete an
earlier work, in most cases he destroyed the original manuscript, so it is extremely
difficult to know how much was changed or added to, and what proportion of the
eventual whole really owed its essence to the earlier material.”12
Something not unlike the former observation, rather than the latter, may be
applied to Requiem da Camera, the young composer’s first attempt at symphonic
design, for although Finzi was never successful in his efforts to have it published,
significantly he preserved all of the manuscripts. Obviously, he cherished them.
Along with the edition released posthumously, these provide invaluable insights
into the genesis of the work and the composer’s approach to the structural demands
of an extended composition.
The twelve manuscripts of Requiem da Camera are housed in the Bodleian
Library of Oxford University, together with all of Finzi’s “published and
unpublished works, with drafts, notes and unfinished pieces,” where they were
deposited after his death.13 Seven of the manuscripts were among the original
donation, catalogued as b.33.20–24; an additional five manuscripts, catalogued as
c.448, c.449, and c.450, were donated by another individual.14
The first movement is represented by six manuscripts: an autograph for solo
piano (b.33.20 (i) = b.33, fols 100–101); two autograph full scores, which appear
to be an earlier (b.33.20 (ii) = b.33, fols 102v–105v) and a later copy (c.448) of
the same music; and three copies of an arrangement for piano duet, one (b.33.23
= b.33, fols 131–44) of which is an autograph by Finzi of an arrangement by
Howard Ferguson, another (b.33.24 = b.33, fols 148–152v) of which is in the hand
of Ferguson himself, while a third is a copy by an anonymous person (c.449). The
choral movements are each represented by two autograph piano scores (b.33.22
= b.33, fols 119–27 and b.33.23 = b.33, fols 131–44), one autograph full score
(c.448), and one copy in piano score (c.449). There are five versions of movement
three: the first (b.33.21 (i) = b.33, fols 106–7) is an alternative version, while the
other four, two piano scores (b.33.23 and c.449) and two full scores (b.33.21 (ii) =
b.33, fols 109–15 and c.450), are of a newer setting.15
One can ascertain from the manuscripts that Requiem da Camera began with
the 1923 setting (b.33.21 (i)) for male voice and piano of Hardy’s celebrated
poem, “Only a Man Harrowing Clods,” taken from In Time of “The breaking of
Nations”. In 1924 the song became the third movement of a four-movement work,
joined by an instrumental first movement, titled Prelude, and two choral settings
of stanzas from Masefield’s August, 1914 and Gibson’s Lament, the second and
fourth movements, respectively. The piano duet version of the first movement
(b.33.24), completed in 1927 by Howard Ferguson, was made for a new fair-copy
score (c.449) intended for publication purposes. But Finzi was dissatisfied with the
third movement, which he decided to replace with a new setting (b.33.21 (ii)) that
he composed in the late 1920s, changing the mode from D minor to B@ minor. He
never finished the twelve-page rough draft of the orchestration that he began of the
new setting, for in some places it is incomplete and in others rather unreadable. In
spite of that, it is clear that he intended to insert it into the work, for he renumbered
the pages of his bound full score (c.448) to leave a twelve-page break between the
last two movements. This is the score upon which the published edition and the
premiere recording were based.16
In view of the last observation, it must be said that these particular manuscripts
of Finzi, who by all accounts was a fastidious composer, were carefully prepared,
for they are very neat, as opposed to those of, say, Vaughan Williams, whose
cacography can be undecipherable. Nevertheless, “sometimes the putting-together
process would cause him immense difficulty,” Ferguson recollects, “while at other
times everything would fall into place with comparative ease. Writing was never
a wholly easy or fluent business with him.”17 Here, the “sketches and alternatives”
mentioned by Ferguson, on which Finzi recorded his musical ideas in black ink,
are represented by 16-stave, 20-stave, 22-stave, or 32-stave orchestral paper.
Finzi orchestrated Requiem da Camera for flute, oboe, cor anglais, clarinet
in B@ and bass clarinet (one player), horn in F, harp, violin I and II, viola, cello,
and bass (b.33.20 (ii)). He specified in the choral score (b.33.22) that the vocal
parts may be performed by four soloists, “who should be well apart from each
other,” or by a small chorus “of not more than four to a part.” If the latter is
used, the strings should be reinforced, as Finzi designated, “to a maximum of
4.4.3.3.2 and less in regard to a smaller chorus.” Clearly, these directions intimate
the composer’s recognition that the exigencies of a given situation may require
substitutions in the performing forces. To that end, Finzi indicated further that “the
harp part can be played on the piano”; or, in the absence of a particular instrument,
“another of suitable compass, with due regard for balance of tone,” may receive
the assignment. However, his suggestions are not always successful, as is clear
in the first version of the third movement (b.33.21 (i)), where the lower notes
provided for the bass of the choral ensemble, who may sing it in lieu of a baritone
soloist, spoil the effect of the climactic passage.
The manuscripts disclose that Finzi thought about naming the work Elegies,
for on two of the prefatory pages (b.33.20 f. 96 and b.33.24 f. 131) Requiem da
Camera has been struck through and succeeded by Elegies with a question mark.
Certainly, the title captures more precisely the somber mood of the work, with
its vein of tender melancholy which led Finzi to lament, in beautiful but relaxing
measure, the passing of an older and lovelier world; but also it underscores its chief
deficiency, of which Finzi was not unaware: the slow-moving, elegiac quality is
insufficient for, and indeed cannot be compensated by, the symphonic architecture
upon which the work is built.
Be that as it may, the structural coherence of Requiem da Camera is furnished,
essentially, by several motifs that appear in the opening and subsequent measures of
the first movement (Appassionata, quarter-note = 66, and primarily in a  meter)—
these constitute first group material—and it is rather like Vaughan Williams’s
Pastoral Symphony with its interweaving melodies, imitations, inversions, and
undulating harmonies. The first motif (a) consists of a quietly repetitive pedal
point, supporting a progression of slowly oscillating chords that come to signify a
“man harrowing clods” in movement three. This “slow silent walk” is sustained by
the second motif (b), an excrescence of a, which combines an ascending stepwise
bass with a plangent treble in an arpeggiated form. The bass of the latter, inverted,
develops into the third motif (c), with its melancholy minor seventh, arching then
dropping by step to the third below, identified by Banfield and McVeagh as a
reference to Butterworth’s “cherry tree” motif, which carries an almost inaudible
melodic quotation of the initial vocal phrase of movement three. The fourth motif
(d), a ponderous, ascending sixteenth–eighth–sixteenth-note figure (Example 7.1),
may have been derived from the climactic pages of Lord, Thou Hast Been Our
Refuge by Vaughan Williams, for the pitches (1–2–4–5) on which it is structured
duplicate those of the head motif of the “Prosper Thou” fugato (three before Q)
(Example 7.2). The arpeggio-like flourish that initiates the work, because of its
appearance and attitude as an introductory gesture, is designated lastly as the fifth
motif (e). The design of Requiem da Camera emerges through Finzi’s inclination
to manipulate these motifs, rather than to adopt a palpably defined, fixed schema as
the pattern for the entire work, as may be seen at the outset in the first movement.
In the preponderant tonality of C minor, the organization of the first movement
is carried out by means of the repetitions and variations of the motifs, with their
constituent rhythms, tone colors, and textures, and by the contrasts and balances
among them. It proceeds with a polyphonic regularity that is based for the most
part on the second and third motifs (b and c) in imitation or in counterpoint. Formal
definition is provided by two passages (at measures 23–24 and 54–55) using the first
motif (a), in C minor and B@ minor, respectively, which frame and balance a musical
discourse that increasingly intensifies through the amassing of imitative entries.
The section beginning at measure 25 is reminiscent of Vaughan Williams—
the prominent melodic fragment (1–5–5–4–5–6–7–8) was later to be stretched
and teased by Finzi into the immortality motif (5–8–2–8–2–3–4–3–4–5) of
Intimations of Immortality—as is the section at four measures after letter C, which
features the fourth motif (d) derived perhaps, as indicated above, from Vaughan
Williams’s “Prosper Thou” fugato. The latter offers contrast to a movement subtly
constructed on the lines of sonata form, while the former may be seen as its un-
recapitulated second subject. Yet another statement of the third motif (c), richly
harmonized by a series of bold, block chords over a jagged bass line producing an
intense dissonance, leads to the supreme climax of the movement (seven measures
after D), where the second motif (b) is expressively and incisively executed at the
dynamic level fff.
Thereafter, the movement begins a dilatory concluding section using, at first,
the third motif (c) and then, vaguely, the fifth motif (e). The culminating measures
are prolonged by the first motif (a), fragmented and augmented, together with an
important component of Finzi’s harmonic vocabulary: the Neapolitan simultaneity.
Here, a D@ and A@ are juxtaposed with the tonic’s C and G, the F of the former
moving back and forth with the G of the latter, before resolving with a calculated
ambiguity: ambiguity because the final C chord lacks the mode-defining third, the
F moving to G rather than to E@ or E.
In crafting the second and longest movement of Requiem da Camera (Quasi
senza misura, quarter-note = c. 44, and with a multi-metrical posture), Finzi chose
nine stanzas depicting the beauty and serenity of rural England at evening rather
than the ghastly details of war in France from the nineteen stanzas that make up
Masefield’s August, 1914.18 These he divided into two clearly delineated sections,
stanzas one through four (for a cappella chorus with an instrumental interlude
between stanzas two and three) and stanzas five through eight and ten (for chorus
accompanied by orchestra). The movement shows the influence of Lord, Thou Hast
Been Our Refuge, particularly the “Prosper Thou” head motif (d) that underlines
stanza six and some of seven and ten; and, more subtly, the harmonic sinking (at
Example 7.1 Requiem da Camera by Gerald Finzi, motif d (Banks, 1992), p. 10

Example 7.2 Lord, Thou Hast Been Our Refuge by Ralph Vaughan Williams,
“Prosper Thou” (fugato) head-motif (G. Schirmer, 1921), p. 14
the beginning from A Dorian to A@ minor to G Dorian), which may have been
Finzi’s large-scale response to the former’s B section (at C passim), where the
harmonic drop is from chord to chord. There is also the ghostly trace of Vaughan
Williams’s song, “The Sky above the Roof,” although this may simply be a matter
of the modal-diatonic idiom that Finzi adopted from the older composer.
The first section is distinguished by the melodic profile (in A Dorian), and a
sixth motif (f), of the first three lines of the first stanza that recurs, down a tone (in
G Dorian) and re-voiced with altos instead of sopranos, for the first three lines of
the third stanza. Dissimilar choral music is used for the remaining lines and for
stanzas 2 and 4 (ending in F Dorian), with the exception of the latter’s last two
lines, which commence with the sixth motif (f).
How still this quiet cornfield is tonight!

By an intenser glow the evening falls,
Bringing, not darkness, but deeper light;
Among the stooks a partridge covey calls.
The windows glitter on the distant hill;

Beyond the hedge the sheep-bells in the fold
Stumble on sudden music and are still;
The forlorn pinewoods droop above the wold.
An endless quiet valley reaches out

Past the blue hills into the evening sky;
Over the stubble, cawing, goes a rout
Of rooks from harvest, flagging as they fly.
So beautiful it is, I never saw

So great a beauty on these English fields,
Touched by the twilight’s coming into awe,
Ripe to the soul and rich with summer’s yields.
The second section makes use of a derivative of the fourth motif (d) to underline
all of stanza 6, line 27 of stanza 7 (“Death, like a miser getting his rent”), and lines
34–5 of stanza 10 (“and knew no more / The fields of home, the byres, the market
towns”).
These homes, this valley spread below me here,

The rooks, the tilted stacks, the beasts in pen,
Have been the heartfelt things, past speaking dear
To unknown generations of dead men,
Who, century after century, held these farms,

And, looking out to watch the changing sky,
Hear, as we hear, the rumours and alarms

Of war at hand and danger pressing nigh.
And knew, as we know, that the message meant

The breaking off of ties, the loss of friends,
Death, like a miser getting his rent,
And no new stones laid where the trackway ends,
The harvest not yet won, the empty bin,

The friendly horses taken from the stalls,
The fallow on the hill not yet brought in,
The cracks unplastered in the leaking walls,
Therefore the posture of the first section is very different from the second, which
obtains through a contrapuntal choral texture accompanied by recurring orchestral
material, whereas the former concatenates blocks of choral homophony.
The formal definition of the second movement is achieved, also, through the
instrumental interludes, which occur after stanzas 2, 4, and 8, and after the phrase
“And so by ship to sea” in line 34, stanza 9. The first interlude (indicated above),
in Banfield’s opinion, is “magical, when a cadence note (the tenors’ B) expected
to be the root of a triad is underpinned as the minor third.”19 The second interlude
echoes the first at its commencement and the sixth motif (f) at its end, when it is
transformed into a brief ostinato to very cleverly tie the first half of the movement
to the second half. The third interlude exhibits no recurring material (yet the
descending bass line is suggestive), but the fourth refers to motif a through its
double pedal point, here, in ninths.
In its depiction of the extraordinary loveliness of England, the second
movement contains moments of astonishing beauty. Of these, one may include the
hushed awe of the choral opening and the magical entrance of the first orchestral
interlude (already mentioned), the exquisite portrayal of line 5 (“The windows
glitter on the distant hill”) and the bell-like rendering of line 6 (“the sheep-bells
in the fold”), and the rapt evocation of lines 13 and 14 (“So beautiful it is, I never
saw / So great a beauty on these English fields”).
The “So beautiful it is” segment of line 13 is a superb illustration of the thematic
interpenetration that governs the second section of the movement. In stanza 5, it
reappears imitatively to a B/S/A/T matrix, each voice articulating the “unknown
generations of dead men” of line 20. In stanza 6, it recurs homophonically to the
words “century after century” of line 21, in imitative voice pairs (A/B and S/T)
to the words “heard as we hear” of line 23, and in choral declamation (in octaves)
to the words “war at hand and dan(ger)” of line 24. In stanza 7, it reemerges as
a demonstrative melodic warning by bass, then alto, to the words “Death, like a
miser” of line 27. And, finally, in stanza 8, it recurs in a placid imitation (T/S/B) to
the words “the cracks unplastered in the leaking walls” of line 32.
Three of the examples in the foregoing paragraph, along with their concomitant
bass ostinati, are associated with the climactic moments of the second movement:
(i) the homophonic statement of (line 21) “century after century,” pianissimo at
first but crescendoing gradually to (ii) the fortissimo of (line 24) “Of war at hand
and danger pressing nigh,” reaching, via a passage for solo voices (expressing great
sadness), (iii) the anguished forte of (line 27) “Death, like a miser getting his rent.”
The final sections of the second movement (which commenced in A dorian,
but concludes in D# minor) consist of an unforgettable setting of the last stanza —
Then sadly rose and left the well-loved Downs,

And so by ship to sea, and knew no more
The fields of home, the byres, the market towns,
Nor the dear outline of the English shore.
—that reviews the images of “the well-loved Downs” before the voices fade away
one by one like the “dear outline of the English shore,” and a lovely instrumental
postlude that uses compositional components from the first two interludes.
As we have seen, the composition of the third movement (Con dignita, D minor/D
major, and multi-metrical) preceded the others. Notwithstanding McVeagh’s
suggestion that Finzi intended an earlier work for his secular Requiem—Herrick’s
“Time Was upon the Wing,” for baritone with a central unaccompanied female
chorus, which concludes with a pause sign and “attacca”20—Finzi expended
considerable energy on the setting of Hardy’s poem. The mental image with
which Finzi began, namely the “slow silent walk” of “a man harrowing clods,”
translated into the musical gesture represented by the first motif (a). The motif
was used, retrospectively, to imbue the first movement, and here it permeates
the introduction, the two interludes and the postlude which interpolate the ABC
structure of the song setting suggested by the three stanzas of In Time of “The
Breaking of Nations” by Hardy.21
Only a man harrowing clods

In a slow silent walk
With an old horse that stumbles and nods
Half asleep as they stalk.
Only thin smoke without flame

From the heaps of couch-grass;
Yet this will go onward the same
Though Dynasties pass.
Yonder a maid and her wight

Come whispering by:
War’s annals will cloud into night
Ere their story die.
The essential theme of Hardy’s third stanza—eternal love as opposed to

ephemeral war—is carefully conveyed in Finzi’s setting. Rather than repeating the
music of the A section, as often happens in the more usual ABA form, the third
section of the ABC structure, in D major instead of D minor, displays music “more
melodically defined or simply more tuneful” than in the previous two sections. The
transformation of the “Dynasties pass” phrase (stanza 2, line 8) into the fourth motif
(d) inverted, then the fourth motif (d) in its original form but in the parallel major,
followed by an attractive new melody and countermelody for the “maid and her
wight” (stanza 3, line 9), “give the whole thematic process a focus and purpose not
so pointedly argued anywhere else” in Requiem da Camera, according to Banfield.22
Yet we know that Finzi was dissatisfied with this setting and substituted a later
version. Why? In the final version, new interludes frame section B, for which Finzi
devised an ascending figure (g), depicting the “thin smoke without flame” of line 5,
stanza 2, that is based on a triplet figure used in the second interlude and postlude
of the second movement. Clearly, then, the appearance of this new figure (g) in
the third movement, together with the first motif (a), more cogently establishes its
relationship to the preceding movements and, hence, to the work as a whole.
Because of the revision, the final version (recast in B@ minor and with new
B and C sections) is superior to the first, though the loss of the latter’s attractive
third section was unfortunate. Section A (in ¦¼) proceeds from an introduction built
on the first motif (a) into the initial vocal melody, after which dissimilar vocal
phrases, syllabic and diatonic, are coupled to each successive line of the poem for
the remainder of the orchestral song. In E@ minor (an enharmonic spelling of the
D# minor that concluded movement two), section B (in Ý¾ and ¦¼) features figure g
in the accompaniment and an impassioned climax on “Dynasties pass” of line 8.
The final section, C, moves to the relative major, D@, to initiate an unabated eighth-
note texture in the orchestral accompaniment that underscores the final two lines:
“War’s annals will cloud into night / Ere their story die.” Returning to B@ minor
and to motif a exclusively, the postlude completes the movement in the manner
of the first, abandoning the juxtaposition of the Neapolitan chord, however, and
withholding the third of the chord.
The fourth movement (quarter-note = 66 and, again, multi-metrical) adopts
its structure from the two stanzas of Gibson’s Lament,23 which become the two
sections of the short choral movement:
We who are left, how shall we look again

Happily on the sun or feel the rain
Without remembering how they who went
Ungrudgingly and spent
Their lives for us loved, too, the sun and rain?
A bird among the rain-wet lilac sings—

But we, how shall we turn to little things
And listen to the birds and winds and streams
Made holy by their dreams,

Nor feel the heart-break in the heart of things?
These are framed by a brief introduction and a long postlude and divided from one
another and internally by interludes, all of which are predicated on three reiterated
motifs (b, c, and d) from the first movement in combination with two new figures
(h and i).
Motif b is used in the two-measure introduction and in the first interlude. The
latter, six measures in length, begins forte and Appassionato at letter A before the
end of the first choral section, where a new figure (h) appears in the chorus to the
words of line 5 “loved, too, the sun and rain?” and, then, threads its way through
the interlude. After lines seven and eight of the second section, the second interlude
commences at letter B with another new figure (i), a four-measure ostinato that
fuses fragments of figure h and motif b. It leads to a return of figure h at the words
of line 9, “made holy by their dreams.”
The choral dispositions of lines 5 and 9 to figure h appear at pivotal junctures
in both sections, but have different functions. In the first section, the choral setting
of figure i to the words of line 5 (“loved, too, the sun and rain?”) discharges the
tension of the emotional climax at letter A, “and spent / Their lives for us,” cited
above, that is reached by way of a series of imitative choral gestures that dispense
the text according to the poetic syntax of lines 1–4. In the second section, the
choral setting of figure h to the words of line 9 (“Made holy by their dreams”)
participates in a subtle decrescendo that begins with the T/S/A/B choral gestures
of line 8 (“And listen to the birds and winds and streams”) and ends with the S/B/
A/T choral gestures of line 10 (“Nor feel the heart-break in the heart of things?”).
The latter dissipates in a similar fashion to the second movement with each voice
fading away successively, the alto last of all.
The last passage is not the only one to bring to mind an earlier moment in
Requiem da Camera. The haunting soprano solo to line 6 (“A bird among the
rain-wet lilac sings”) of the second section makes a lovely antecedent to the
unaccompanied choral consequent of line 7 (“But we, how shall we turn to little
things”), which suggests similar treatments in the second movement.
Nevertheless, Finzi has gone to considerable trouble to organize the movement
and the work by means of the repetitions and contrasts of the various motifs,
figures, and other components. In addition to the examples that have already been
encountered, the following may be cited. The orchestral material underpinning
the second line (“Happily on the sun or feel the rain”) of the first section seems
to have been lifted from the first movement at four measures after letter C. There,
and here, it features the ponderous, ascending sixteenth–eighth–sixteenth-note
thematic element identified as the fourth motif (d). The long postlude is cleverly
pieced together from several passages from the first movement: the passage
beginning at letter C, with statements of motifs c and e, corresponds to the section
commencing at measure 25 in the first movement. The last six measures recall not
only the conclusion of the first movement but also its opening: a modification of
the flourish that initiated the work, motif e, precedes the melancholy resolution of
a C minor chord (in second inversion and with the third present at last) into which
an ascending melodic fifth is twice repeated. The final result is very effective and
beautiful beyond compare, but not essentially symphonic.
Wholly Indigenous English Constructs
Requiem da Camera was the first attempt by Finzi at the structural engineering
necessary for large-scale composition, but its elegiac sweetness, haunting
melancholy, and pastoral quiescence could not support the symphonic architecture
upon which the work is built. Finzi never finished it, but it must have had special
meaning to him, for he saved the manuscripts, which, along with the published
edition, tell us a great deal about its genesis. Dedicating the work to his first teacher,
Finzi anthologized the poetry of Gibson, Hardy, and Masefield, and employed
a compositional idiom steeped in the modal-diatonicism of Vaughan Williams’s
style that privileged his perception of environment and music.
Therefore Requiem da Camera is about the grief and loss that war inevitably
brings, but it is about more than that. It is about all things English, the humble
things and the ordinary occurrences in the lives of Englishmen, nameless men
with whom Finzi felt a deep, contemplative sympathy, as is so apparent from the
often-repeated statement of the composer:
I should like to think that in each generation may be found a few responsible
minds, and for them I should still like [my] work to be available. To shake hands
with a good friend over the centuries is a pleasant thing, and the affection which
an individual may retain after his departure is perhaps the only thing which
guarantees an ultimate life to his work.24
Requiem da Camera speaks volumes about the image of England and of himself
that the young composer was creating through his voluminous solitary reading. To
return to the quotation that opened this study:
[Finzi] had … chosen his environment, which he never ceased to compose

alongside his music. Both music and environment were to be pursued as wholly
indigenous English constructs. As we should say today, he invented himself.
Chapter 7 Appendix: Description of the Requiem da Camera Manuscripts
b.33.20. Folio 96 is typed from top to bottom as follows: “REQUIEM DA

CAMERA [struck through in pencil and succeeded in writing by] Elegies? / for /
Small chorus (or four solo voices) / and / Chamber orchestra / by / Gerald Finzi.”
Folio 97 features the poetic excerpt used in the second movement, i.e. “How
still this quiet cornfield is to-night [sic]!,” from August, 1914 by John Masefield.
Similarly, fol. 98 features the poetic excerpt used in the third movement, “Only
a man harrowing clods,” from In Time of “The Breaking of Nations” by Thomas
Hardy. The same may be said of fol. 99: it exhibits a poem used in the fourth, and
last, movement, “We who are left, how shall we look again …,” from Lament by
W.W. Gibson.
b.33.20. (i) Prelude, piano draft (1924). Contained on fols 100–101 (fol. 101v
being blank), and approximately 75 measures in length, this piano draft is written
in black ink on 20-stave orchestral paper. Folio 100r is headed: “Requiem/
Prelude[.]” In the left-hand corner the tempo marking is quarter-note = about
66; in the right-hand corner is found “Gerald Finzi (1924).” Annotations
concerning the appropriate instrumental scoring have been added in pencil. At the
conclusion of the Prelude, Finzi has indicated that he composed it at Painswick
[Gloucestershire]. (ii) Prelude, full score (1924). Contained on fols 102–105v, this
full score is written in black ink on 32-stave orchestral paper. The instrumentation
is as follows: “Flute, Oboe, English Horn, Clarinet in B-flat and Bass Clarinet in
B-flat (one player), Horn in F, Harp, Violin I & II, Viola, Cello and Bass.” After
a nine-measure introduction in, first, E minor, then A minor, the Prelude is in the
mode of C minor.
b.33.21. III. (i) Piano score (1923). It is the speculation (of Mrs Finzi or Mr
Ferguson) that this score is an earlier, alternative version of the third movement
of Requiem da Camera, for on fol. 106 has been added the bracketed statement of
“[Earlier (?) alternative version of:]” to the heading: “Requiem III / The Breaking
of Nations.” Contained on fols 106–107r (fol. 107v is blank), and written in black
ink on 16-stave manuscript paper, it is 44 measures in length. The first version is in
a D major/minor mode. On fol. 107, Finzi has indicated that this earlier version was
completed at King’s Mill House, Painswick. (ii) Draft full score (1924). Contained
on fols 109–115 (fol. 108 is the title page, fols 111v and 116–18 are blank, and fol.
115v is an upside-down version of the initial title page of the work), and written in
black ink on 22-stave paper, this is an incomplete sketch of the subsequent version
that replaced the preceding. The title page (on fol. 108r; fol. 108v is blank) reads:
“in memory of E.B.F[arrar] / [in pencil] Sketch full-score of III: Hardy’s ‘Only
a man harrowing clods’ / Requiem da Camera / for / Small chorus (or four solo
voices) / and / Chamber orchestra / Gerald Finzi (1924)[.]” The replacement song
is in the mode of B@ minor.
b.33.22. II and IV. Piano score. 1924. Folios 119–27. Folio 119 is a title page,
which reads: “in memory of E.B.F. / [added in pencil: Choral score of:] Requiem
da Camera / for 4 solo voices (or small chorus), Baritone solo ad lib, and chamber
orchestra / Gerald Finzi / (1924)[.]” The following commentary is found on fol.

119v: “note (from the full score). 1) The vocal part is for 4 soloists (who should be
well apart from each other). It can also be performed by a small chorus of not more
than 4 to a line. In this case it would be advisable to add to the strings a maximum
of 4.4.3.3.2 and less in proportion to a smaller chorus. For performances in a large
hall the strings can be added to at discretion. The Baritone solo (no III) can be
taken by the Bass, and—to suit the latter—alternatives to high notes are given.
Any number can be performed separately. 2) The instruments are: [the instruments
are listed as above]. The harp part can be played on the piano. The Bass Clarinet to
sound a major 9th lower. If possible, the Double Bass should lower the 4th string
to D in time for no III. This can be done from the very beginning, or whenever
convenient, but on no account between the numbers. In the absence of any
instrument, the part may be taken by another of suitable compass, with due regard
for balance of tone. 3) The following are the poems used [the poems are listed as
above].” The second movement is contained on fols 120–124v, and consists of 99
measures. The fourth movement is contained on fols 125–7, and consists of 52
measures. Folios 127v–129v are blank.
b.33.23. Complete piano score. 1924. Folios 131–44. Folio 130, a title page,
reads: “in memory of E.B.F. / Requiem da Camera [struck through with pencil and
succeeded by] Elegies? / for / Small chorus (or four solo voices) / and / chamber
orchestra / Gerald Finzi / (1924) / [penciled in a bracketed sentence] [With III
piano score inlaid, having been added later?] / [in the bottom, right-hand corner]
20 minutes[.]” Folio 130v includes a repeat of the poems used in the Requiem
(see above). Folios 131–134v, written on 20-stave paper in black ink, consist of
an arrangement for piano duet by Howard Ferguson (as indicated on the bottom
of fol. 131), though this information is not communicated in the Post-Summary
Catalogue. There are indications of instrumental scoring throughout. Folios
135–139v, also written in black ink and on 20-stave paper, consist of the second
movement, using the format of a single piano for the instrumental interludes and
to accompany the voices in the appropriate sections. Folios 140–41, written in
black ink on 16-stave paper, consist of the superior version of the baritone solo and
piano. Folios 142–144r (fol. 144v is blank), written in black ink on 20-stave paper,
consist of the fourth and last movement for chorus and a single piano (as for the
second movement). Folios 145–147v are not used by the composer.
b.33.24. Prelude, “Arrangement for pianoforte duet” by Howard Ferguson, c.
1927, in H.F.’s hand. Folios 148–152v. A note on the bottom, right-hand corner of
the title page added by Ferguson in July 1964 indicates that this arrangement was
“made by HF, c. 1927, because GF said it was impossible!”
Additional manuscripts donated by Philip Thomas through the Finzi Trust, 4 July
1994. Autograph and copyists’ scores.
c.448. Autograph of prelude, second and fourth movements bound together in
one volume.
c.449. Complete piano score, the first movement of which is another “Arrangement
for piano duet by Howard Ferguson,” c. early 1928, prepared by an anonymous
professional copyist; the poetic texts seem to have been added by Finzi.
c.450. Third movement orchestrated by Thomas, who used the incomplete
autograph sketch found in b.33.21(ii).
Notes
1 Stephen Banfield, Gerald Finzi: An English Composer (London, 1997), pp. 1–2.
2 See Banfield, Gerald Finzi, p. 87; Howard Ferguson, “Biographical Study,” in
John C. Dressler, Gerald Finzi: A Bio-Bibliography (Westport, CT, 1997), p. 6;
Diana McVeagh, Gerald Finzi: His Life and Music (Woodbridge, 2005), p. 31;
Diana McVeagh, “Composers of Our Time: Gerald Finzi,” Records and Recording,
23/4 (1980): 31; Ronald Reah, “Dots Before the Eyes,” British Music Society
Newsletter, 57 (March 1993): 173; Kathleen E. Robinson, A Critical Study of Word/
Music Correspondences in the Choral Works of Gerald Finzi (Ph.D. dissertation:
Northwestern University, 1994), p. 262; and Philip Thomas, “Requiem da Camera,”
Finzi Trust Friends Newsletter, 8/2 (Winter 1990), p. 13. After Farrar joined the
Grenadier Guards (11 December 1915), Stanford and Vaughan Williams persuaded
him to accept a commission, as 2nd Lieutenant, 3rd Battalion, Royal North
Devon Yeomanry (27 February 1918). Twelve days after his posting in France
(6 September), Farrar was killed in action by machine gun fire, leading his men over
the top at Epéhy Ronssoy, where he is buried in the Communal Cemetery.
3 Banfield, Gerald Finzi, pp. 1–2. If the title of the book seems redundant (Gerald
Finzi: An English Composer [emphasis mine]), it becomes manifestly clear why it
was chosen after reading the opening pages. For Banfield’s book is, essentially, an
investigation of how and why a composer of Jewish heritage became passionately
English; indeed, how he became the quintessentially English composer (after Holst
and Vaughan Williams) of the English Musical Renaissance of the early twentieth
century, and of the tensions and angst that transformation entailed.
4 Banfield, Gerald Finzi, p. 62. Finzi, letter to Vera Somerfield, 4 April 1921. There,
he made his famous remark: “Many will make the pilgrimage but we are the first!!”
5 Finzi, letter to Vera Somerfield, 7 September 1923. See: Stephen Banfield, “Vaughan
Williams and Finzi,” in Lewis Foreman (ed.), Vaughan Williams in Perspective
(London, 1998), pp. 205–6. Finzi writes that he found Vaughan Williams “as
glorious as usual,” and the only work by the elder composer performed that year
was Lord, Thou Hast Been Our Refuge.
6 A.E.F. Dickinson, Vaughan Williams (London, 1963), p. 220. Finzi must have been
responding to the aural experience of Lord, Thou Hast Been Our Refuge, for there
is no evidence on the autograph [Add. 52620 (1)] that Vaughan Williams sent the
younger composer his score. The first folio of Vaughan Williams’s autograph is
the handwritten (in black ink) title page which reads as follows: “Lord Thou Hast
Been our Refuge / Motet For chorus, semi-chorus / and Orchestra (or Organ) /
by R Vaughan Williams[.]” Above the phrase “by R Vaughan Williams” is written
[in another hand?] in red ink: “Curwen Edition 80592.” Below the phrase “by R
Vaughan Williams” is written in red ink: “R. Vaughan Williams[.]” At the bottom
of the leaf is written in red ink: “London: / J. Curwen & Sons Ltd. 24 Berners St
W.1. / Copyright 1921 by J. Curwen & Sons Ltd[.]” The manuscript is penned in
black ink with the exception of the organ reduction of the choral part, to be used
for rehearsal only, in red ink. In fact, there is a note on fol. 1v, written in red ink,
that states: “Engraver: / All the organ / accompaniment in / red to be in / small type;
but / where in black (starting on p 6) / full-size type to be used[.]” Also, red ink is
used for the rehearsal letters, which are circled in pencil. Vaughan Williams used
24-stave orchestral paper. Unless otherwise noted, the composer divided each folio
into three systems of seven staves (as with fol. 1) for the following performing
forces: (from top to bottom) semi-chorus (soprano and alto on the same stave, then
tenor and bass on the next stave); then, after a line is skipped, full chorus (with the
same distribution of voices); and, then, organ. Folio 3 features four systems (three
for full chorus and organ, beginning with the text “As soon as Thou,” and one
for semi-chorus, full chorus, and organ, beginning with “For we consume away”).
Folio 4v features five systems (one for semi-chorus, full chorus and organ, using
the text “O satisfy us with Thy mercy”; one for full chorus, and organ, using the
text “glad all the days of our life”; three for organ alone). Folio 5r presents four
systems (all of them for the two choruses, trumpet, and organ beginning at the text
“Lord, Thou hast been our refuge”). Pencil is used for corrections (e.g. the two-beat
triplet at “one gener[ation]” was written in both instances (at the beginning and
the recapitulation) as a one-beat triplet but corrected by Vaughan Williams) and to
designate the keys above the systems (e.g. D major; D minor) throughout the work.
The score was used by the editor/compositor to prepare the printed score, as the
markings clearly indicate.
7 An annotation on the manuscript indicates that an alteration is Vaughan Williams’s
suggestion.
8 Of the 3,300 surviving letters of Vaughan Williams, 1,450 are written to fifteen
major correspondents; Finzi was the recipient of the largest number (170), more
than Ralph Wedgwood (80), Holst (60), Ursula Vaughan Williams (120), or
Michael Kennedy (150). Hugh Cobbe, Letters of Ralph Vaughan Williams 1895–
1958 (Oxford, 2008), p. 5.
9 Finzi’s relatives, respectable, prosperous, and distinguished Jewish families, had
been settled in England for several generations, and were Sephardi on his father’s
side, Ashkenazi on his mother’s. For complete information, see Banfield, Gerald
Finzi, pp. 1–10. According to McVeagh (“Composers of Our Time,” p. 32), Finzi
felt his heritage was irrelevant to his life, because “he believed that one was a Jew
by conscious choice not birth or race. Later, he detested the dogmatism of strict
creeds and considered himself an agnostic, a rationalist, and a pacifist.” But, as
Banfield has shown in his book, Finzi’s reaction to his heredity is complicated and
his life is replete with contradictions. In Chapter 2, Banfield begins to draw heavily
upon Finzi’s extensive correspondence (of which over 3,000 items are listed in
the “Index to Letters”), which enables him to support his interpretation of Finzi’s
creative self-construction.
10 Robinson, pp. 308 and 314.
11 Howard Ferguson, “Gerald Finzi (1901–1956),” Music and Letters, 38/2 (April
1957): 131.
12 Banfield, Gerald Finzi, p. 121.
13 Most of Finzi’s manuscripts were given by the widow of the composer to the
Bodleian Library, where they may be examined in the Music Reading Room.
Sorted and in some cases annotated (in pencil) by Mrs. Finzi and Mr. Howard
Ferguson, the manuscripts were catalogued by the Bodleian Library as MSS. Mus.
b.33–34, b.43, c.376–398. A listing of the manuscripts may be found in the Post-
Summary Catalogue Music Manuscripts, Mus. A.65/1, where they are placed in the
categories that follow: I. Works to which no opus numbers were given (c. 1921–
25). II. Numbered works and posthumous works; related material: (i) The shorter
works, now bound in three volumes, and (ii) Longer works, some bound for G.F.,
and related material. III. Unfinished works and arrangements. IV. Additional music
from Boosey & Hawkes, 1978.
14 The manuscripts of Requiem da Camera are listed in the Post-Summary Catalogue
Music Manuscripts, Mus. A.65/1, as follows: “b.33.20–24. ‘Requiem da Camera’
for solo voices or small chorus and chamber orchestra, in memory of E.B. Farrar,
1923–4./20. Prelude, piano draft and full score, 1924. Fols.100–5./21. III. Piano
score, 1923, and draft full score, 1924. Fols.106–15./22. II and IV. Piano score,
1924. Fols.119–27./23. Complete piano score, 1924. Fols.131–44./24. Prelude,
‘Arrangement for pianoforte duet’ by Howard Ferguson, ca. 1927, in H.F.’s hand.
Fols.148–52v.” Bound together in one volume.
15 I have chosen to list the movements in this fashion; however, the manuscript situation
is rather complex, because each movement is not a separate manuscript but in some
instances a part of a complete score. As Peter Ward Jones of the Bodleian Library
suggested (in an email of 21 July 2010), it may provide clarity to group them starting
with complete scores and progressing to separate movements, as follows.
• Complete scores: piano-vocal score, autograph (1924), MS. Mus. b.33, fols
131–44; piano-vocal score, copyist and Finzi, dated at end “1924” but this copy
made 1928, MS. Mus. c.449.
• Partial scores (more than one movement): full score of movements I, II, and IV,
autograph (1924), MS. Mus. c.448; piano-vocal score of movements II and IV,
autograph, MS. Mus. b.33, fols 119–27.
• Single movements: Prelude: piano draft, autograph (1924), MS. Mus. b.33,
fols 100–101; full score, autograph (1924), MS. Mus. b.33, fols 102–105v;
arrangement for piano duet Howard Ferguson, c. 1927, in Ferguson’s hand,
MS. Mus. b.33, fols 148–152v. Movement III: piano-vocal score, early version,
autograph (1923), MS. Mus. b.33, fols 106–7; draft full score, autograph (1924),
MS. Mus. b33, fols 109–15; full score, completed and edited by Philip Thomas
from the draft score, 1984, MS. Mus. c.450.
At any rate, my full description of the manuscripts may be seen in the Chapter 7
Appendix.
16 Requiem da Camera, edited by Philip Thomas (York, 1992). The choral score, with
movements I and III omitted, can be purchased, as can an orchestral study score
made from the oversized full score; however, the orchestral parts are available for
hire only. For a discussion of the editor’s admirable work on the fragmentary draft
score, see Thomas, “Requiem da Camera,” and the sleeve note to the recording by
Chandos 8997 (1991).
17 Ferguson, “Gerald Finzi (1901–1956),” p. 132.
18 John Masefield, Poems (New York, 1935), p. 390.

20 McVeagh, Gerald Finzi, p. 22.
21 Thomas Hardy, The Complete Poetical Works of Thomas Hardy, vol. 2, ed. Samuel
Hynes (Oxford, 1984), pp. 295–6.
23 Wilfrid Gibson, Collected Poems 1905–1925 (London, 1933; republished St. Clair
Shores, MI, 1971), p. 491.
24 Dressler, p. 15.
Chapter 8
“The visionary gleam”: Gerald Finzi,
Ralph Vaughan Williams, and Intimations
of Immortality
The reference in [a] letter of 1936 to his choral setting of “Intimations of

Immortality,” which was not complete until 1950, is revealing. The composition
of almost every one of Finzi’s works was spread over a considerable number of
years, for he always had in his desk the material of many “works in progress.” Each
of these would be added to from time to time, … until a large batch of sketches,
generally quite discontinuous, was built up for a particular work. This work would
then be taken in hand, the gaps filled in, and the sketches and alternatives reduced
to a single continuous whole. (Howard Ferguson)1
Spread Over a Considerable Number of Years
Gerald Finzi’s choral ode, Intimations of Immortality, Op. 29, for tenor solo,
mixed chorus, and orchestra, premiered at the Three Choirs Festival in Gloucester,
England, on 5 September 1950. The event was the culmination of a protracted
genesis that is impossible to trace, for Finzi labored intermittently on the
composition over many years, and the few statements made by the composer or his
wife regarding the piece offer little help in reconstructing its compositional stages.
The earliest reference to the work may be found in a letter of 1931 to Jack Haines,
in which Finzi inquired about the accentuation of one of the ode’s lines, while in
a letter of 1936 to Howard Ferguson (above) he referred obliquely to his choral
setting. In 1938 he wrote to William Busch that he was half finished, whereas in a
1945 letter to Robin Milford he asserted that it was more than a third done before
the war. Lastly, in 1955, the composer wrote to Ian Davie that the choral ode
had “simmered for sixteen years.”2 Yet Finzi’s wife, Joy, stated that Intimations
of Immortality was “conceived some twenty-five years before [the premiere in
1950],” and also that it was “certainly with us all our married days” (the Finzis
married in 1933).3
Be that as it may, it should come as no surprise to learn that the composition
of Finzi’s magnum opus was inspired by Ralph Vaughan Williams, with whom
Finzi was closely associated throughout much of his life. Finzi first met the
older composer in 1926 when he moved to London to study with R.O. Morris,
the eminent pedagogue of counterpoint and historical musicology.4 Morris and
Vaughan Williams had married two sisters from the Fisher family, Emmeline and
Adeline respectively, and the two couples shared their rented house at 13 Cheyne
Walk, Chelsea.5 It was not long after their first meeting that Vaughan Williams and
his wife befriended the young composer, who soon enjoyed the benefits of their
generosity. For example, whenever the couple went away from Dorking, where
they had moved in 1929 for Adeline’s sake, Finzi had the use of their home, where
he stayed, worked, and recovered from the stressful environment of London. In a
relatively short time both Vaughan Williams and Adeline became fond of Finzi:
they admired his music, his great knowledge of English poetry, and his love of the
countryside. Indeed, they gladly agreed when asked to witness his wedding to Joy
Black, which took place at the Dorking registry office in 1933.6
Of course, Finzi had become intimately acquainted with the music of Vaughan
Williams: he absorbed it work by work as each was published, he attended almost
every first performance, and he was one of the select and happy few invited to
the famous piano and two-piano run-throughs of new works. Over the years,
he conceivably participated in more of these than any other guest.7 Eventually,
Vaughan Williams’s relationship with Finzi must have compensated to some degree
for the former’s loss of Holst, for, in a manner not unlike Holst’s and Vaughan
Williams’s relationship, Finzi and Vaughan Williams came to discuss and criticize
each other’s compositional endeavors.8 Surely, their conversations centered on
other topics, as well, for Finzi is known to have embraced an agnosticism and
humanitarianism that were consistent with the beliefs of Vaughan Williams. Finzi
had intended to dedicate Intimations of Immortality to Vaughan Williams—proof
of the extraordinary nature of their friendship—but, in the end, it was Adeline,
living long enough to hear it broadcast in 1950, who received the honor. Whether
or not Finzi became the son that Vaughan Williams and his wife never had—
certainly Finzi looked upon Vaughan Williams as the father he had lost—in time
the older composer considered Finzi his spiritual heir and the torch-bearer of the
next generation of composers. Upon Finzi’s sad and untimely passing, however,
he shifted the mantle (of the latter) to Edmund Rubbra.9
Works in Progress
In view of these facts, it is perhaps no accident that Intimations of Immortality

and An Oxford Elegy share similarities. Begun in 1947, Vaughan Williams’s work
had its first private performance in 1949,10 the year in which Finzi was laboring
arduously to meet the deadline of his premiere.11 The most striking parallel is
the pivoted tonal structure of Intimations of Immortality, remarkably like that of
An Oxford Elegy. In the former, a shift from B minor to B@ minor mirrors the
creation of Wordsworth’s ode (that is, a two-year hiatus separated the composition
of the first four stanzas from the last seven) (see Chapter 8 Appendix). In the
latter, a shift (up rather than down) from C minor to D@/C# minor mirrors the
creation of Arnold’s two texts (that is, the first poem was written fifteen years
Gerald Finzi, Ralph Vaughan Williams, and Intimations of Immortality 199
before the second elegy). Moreover, the orchestral conclusion of Intimations of

Immortality, withdrawn in its very eloquence, is reminiscent of that of An Oxford
Elegy, restrained and contemplative. The former features a reiterated raised fourth
in D minor (g#), whereas the latter exhibits a reiterated raised fourth in F major
(b$). Finally, both Intimations of Immortality and An Oxford Elegy make use of a
musical idiom that is alternately mellow and ravishing and both explore a similar
theme via the poetry of two familiar and beloved poets.
Finzi’s work is based on the ode of William Wordsworth (1770–1850),
Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood, which begins
with the celebrated lines:
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,

The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn whereso’er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
Although there are many interpretations of the meaning of this poem, the exegesis
of S.F. Gingerich—intellectual rather than religious—succinctly provides a
comprehensive and penetrating study of Wordsworth’s philosophy.
Memory and hope bound together by the power of the central will, furnish the
whole foundation of the poem. By means of these faculties the mind travels
backward through childhood and birth and forward through age and death into
a transcendental world. The philosophic significance of the poem is that in it the
two great currents of immanence and transcendence meet and are held in perfect
balance by the law of continuity.12
Immanence may be defined as God operating in nature and in man, transcendence

as God existing above them. Continuity refers to “an abiding sense that at the very
center of our natures there has existed, from our earliest childhood, a quality, or
force, which preserves our personal identity throughout life and which in itself has
such spiritual dignity and greatness that it demands on our part a faith that it gives
continuity to our existence throughout eternity.”13
Thus Wordsworth’s ode invokes the richness of first childhood sensations and
the pain of their fading as it investigates the mystical experience in an elevated
poetic style—complex in lyric utterance, exalted in exclamation, and rapid in
transitions of tone. Images of light and shades of light appear repeatedly, and
Wordsworthians are in agreement that this ode uses illumination as a metaphor for
the transcendent or for a reality beyond what is perceptible to the senses.
Vaughan Williams’s work is adapted from The Scholar-Gipsy and Thyrsis by

Matthew Arnold (1822–88), and commences with the familiar lines from the first
poem:
Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill;

Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes!
No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed,
Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats,
Nor the cropp’d herbage shoot another head.
But when the fields are still,
And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest,
And only the white sheep are sometimes seen
Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch’d green,
Come, shepherd, and again begin the quest!
The last line telegraphs the subject of both Arnold poems: a quest. In the first
work, Arnold searches for himself as poet, employing the literary conceit of the
Scholar-Gipsy, a genius loci that inhabits the pastoral environment “waiting for
the spark from heaven to fall,” and he discovers himself as poet while composing
his poem. In the second work, Arnold attempts to regain his imaginative ability,
represented by the manifestation of the tree, which he regains not through the
intellectual exertion of writing about it but by behaving like the Scholar-Gipsy—
“Quick! Let me fly, cross / Into yon farther field!”—which permits him to perceive
the tree again. In regaining his vision of the tree, Arnold merely restores his ability
to continue to be a searcher, for the quest, not the accomplishment of the quest, is
the essence of its meaning.14
It is more arresting to note that Intimations of Immortality may have subsumed
some of the compositional material of Harnham Down, an early, unpublished work
for orchestra by Vaughan Williams,15 which Finzi knew from his days with Ernest
Farrar. Indeed, not long after the first public performance at Queen’s College,
Oxford, which Gerald attended with his wife, Joy Finzi recorded a conversation
that occurred between Vaughan Williams and Finzi.
G[erald] referred to [the] fact that he [Vaughan Williams] had used a quotation
from the Matthew Arnold poem in a very early orchestral work Harnham Down
… . VW seemed amazed that G knew about this work which had been discarded
nearly 40 years ago. He had incorporated some of its material into the new work.
Later he posted G the early MS of Harnham Down for G to look at. G found it
all rather touching, & remembered Ernest Farrar’s enthusiasm for it round about
1916.16
Could it be that Finzi’s choral ode, in an embryonic state, stems from 1916?17
Intimations of Immortality begins with a haunting, nostalgic orchestral
introduction that summarizes the salient themes. Motif a, the immortality motif,
is characterized by an initial leap of a perfect fourth, eighth-note rhythms, and

outlines an ascending octave. Motif b, associated with the idea of glory, is a
bittersweet melody, alternately restrained and enkindled. Used as a refrain element
in the work, it features four initial notes descending a perfect fourth in its first
measure and an ascending triad in its second measure (Example 8.1). Motif c,
representing grief, is defined by a descending stepwise third in eighth-notes
followed by an ascending perfect fifth or a descending perfect fourth. Motif d,
signifying loss, is a series of repeating, pulsating chords.
Most of these themes are reminiscent of the compositional material of Harnham
Down (see Chapter 6). The initial profile of motif b in Intimations of Immortality
suggests motif c (truncated) in the earlier work. The subsequent contour of motif
c in the former (perfect fourth or fifth) is reminiscent of motifs d, e, and f in the
latter. Moreover, the manner in which the perfect fourth of motif c is rendered in the
former at measures 26 and 29 recalls the context of motif f in the latter. Although
motif d in the former seems to have no connection to the latter, the descending
chromatic gesture that emerges when it is used at “Whither is fled the visionary
gleam?” is very like that at the end of the delicate colloquy in Harnham Down.
Example 8.1 Intimations of Immortality by Gerald Finzi, motifs a and b (vocal

score; Boosey, 1950), mm. 1–13
A Single Continuous Whole
Let us look more closely at Intimations of Immortality.18 A one-movement structure

that omits two of the eleven stanzas (numbers 7 and 8) of Wordsworth’s ode,
Finzi’s choral work is articulated by a leitmotif that appears in the introductory,
central, and concluding sections. Stephen Banfield labels this musical gesture
the “immortality” motif, and relates it and several radiant orchestral effects of
glimmering light to Wordsworth’s explorations into the mystical experience,
concerned as it is with images of illumination and darkness. Banfield writes:
The glory and freshness of Finzi’s setting lies in the fact that his sensitivity to
this imagery and … to the very “intimations of immortality” whenever they
occur matches Wordsworth’s. The extraordinary effects of light and dark are
inherent in the haunting opening “immortality” motif, which rises on the horn
out of the silence of eternity into an unearthly shimmering phosphorescence
on the strings, only to sink back into inconclusive timelessness in the work’s
closing bars, serving in the meantime to pin point, all too fleetingly, the central
investigation into the “intimations” at the beginning of stanza five.19
Such articulation contributes to the overall architecture and coherence of the work,
as does Finzi’s use of a pivoted tonal structure.
The introduction is an evocative essay with placid and plangent moments
interrupted suddenly by manifestations of the intimations of immortality: the
stabbing octaves (at measures 7 and 19) and the chords (at measures 26, 29, and
64) represent the immanent apprehensions of Wordsworth, the pain and longing
and adoring that welled up in him so frequently, perfectly expressed in another
famous phrase of the poet: “Surprised by joy—impatient as the wind.”
Subsequently, the work features a dream-sequence of stanzas 1 and 2 in
which eight-part chorus, tenor solo, and orchestra interweave a large construct
of contrapuntal texture, rich and luminous. Permeated with a sad wistfulness and
yearning, the mood of the music is one of a joy remembered. Stanza 3 is introduced
by an orchestral paragraph of great power, owing much to Walton’s Belshazzar’s
Feast, which ends with a vociferous syncopated unison.20 At the latter part of the
stanza (“The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep”), Finzi writes in an
uncharacteristically robust manner with magnificent orchestration and rhythmic
force. After several splendid climaxes of the musical discourse in stanza 3 (“Thou
Child of Joy, / Shout round me …”; “Ye blessed Creatures …”; “I hear, I hear,
with joy I hear!”) the poem makes the steep modulation near the end of stanza 4
as mentioned above.
Wordsworth composed the first four stanzas of the ode as an automatic, almost
feverish disquisition of a personal problem—a lament for his failing creative
power—which he then discontinued for at least two years before resuming it. As a
result, stanzas 5–11 are different in meter and in thought, and more philosophical,
than stanzas 1–4. Finzi’s use of a pivoted tonal structure, rather than an enframed
one (that is, a structure that begins and ends in the same key), reflects the
circumstances in which Wordsworth’s poem was written. The important passage
upon which Finzi’s work turns occurs near the end of stanza 4:
—But there’s a Tree, of many one,

A single Field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The Pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
To mirror this poetic shift in tone, Finzi pivots abruptly from B minor to B@ minor—
the moment is the silent bar before figure 20—and slows the tempo dramatically
from animando (quarter-note = c. 144) to andante sostenuto (quarter-note = c. 56),
transforming the immortality motif into a funeral march and the work into a large-
scale antecedent/consequent structure favored by the composer.21 Thus, where
only a few measures earlier the music had been blatantly rhetorical, it becomes
introverted and intimate (Example 8.2).
This extraordinary moment is remarkably like that found in An Oxford Elegy,
where Vaughan Williams fuses the end of The Scholar-Gipsy (in C minor) with the
beginning of Thyrsis (in C# minor). Arnold composed the latter poem—which is
about the dissipation of his creative inspiration—fifteen years after the former, and
although they employ the same locale and are written in the same stanza and the
same pastoral mode, they are different. The Scholar-Gipsy is primarily a Romantic
dream-vision which creates an ideal figure who lives outside of time (that is, the
Scholar-Gipsy), whereas Thyrsis is an elegy about a human being who lived in
time and was thereby destroyed (that is, Arnold’s friend Arthur Clough). Both are
about the contest between permanence and change—the alteration of the image
of the Scholar-Gipsy in the former, the impermanence of place and persons in the
latter.22 Exercising his propensity for selecting and rearranging lines to suit his
own interpretative purposes, Vaughan Williams’s work turns on the significant
lines that include 131, 136–140, 141, 171, and 180:
But what—I dream! Two hundred years are flown

And thou from earth art gone
Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid—
Some country-nook, where o’er thy unknown grave
Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave,
Under a dark, red-fruited yew-tree’s shade.
No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours!
Thou waitest for the spark from heaven! and we,
Ah! do not we, wanderer! await it too?
Example 8.2 Intimations of Immortality by Gerald Finzi, fusion of Wordsworth’s

poem (poetic shift in tone) (vocal score; Boosey, 1950), pp. 44, 45,
and 46
Example 8.2 Continued

Example 8.2 Concluded

To elucidate this thematic shift, Vaughan Williams transforms his dream motif in
a long paragraph for chorus and orchestra (from four measures after letter T to seven
after letter V) where the conflation of the two poems occurs. Though previously his
dream motif appeared in a D minor mode, now it is featured in a C# minor mode
that evolves in a slow, solemnly beautiful, polyphonic, and imitative rendition for
wordless chorus and orchestra (see Chapter 6, Example 6.5). Though previously
the dream motif was linked to the commencement of the dream, now it is evoked
to symbolize a place revisited. Very quickly, the poet realizes that he has changed
(“Only, methinks, some loss of habit’s power”) and perceives that the single elm is
gone (“That single elm-tree bright / Against the west—I miss it! Is it gone?”).
To return to Finzi’s work, the ensuing philosophical stanzas of Wordsworth’s
poem are, at times, muted or ecstatic. The structure of the choral work closely
parallels the structure of the poetic ode. In Stephen Banfield’s reading of the work,
the central investigation into eternal life is telegraphed by the immortality motif at
the beginning of stanza 5 (“Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting”). In fact, the
motif appears at the end of stanza 4 and the beginning of stanza 5; between the end
of stanza 6 and the beginning of stanza 9 (stanzas 7 and 8 having been omitted);
and, in the middle of stanza 9, between the end of lines 27–32 and the beginning
of lines 33–5.
Finzi uses his musical leitmotif as Wordsworth does his reiterated literary
theme in the ode: it provides a breadth and amplitude to the choral work and a
sense of imaginative completeness for the listener. Moreover, Finzi’s leitmotif is
not a fixed or passive compositional device; it changes as it appears in different
harmonic contexts (for example, to list five of its seven appearances, the first
statement in the orchestral introduction is in G minor, the second at the beginning
of stanza 5 in B@ minor, the third at the end of stanza 6 in D minor, the fourth in
the middle of stanza 9 in A major, and the last at the conclusion in D minor). Thus,
as Wordsworth explores the intimations of immortality through poetic metaphors
of astonishing power (“obstinate questionings,” “high instincts,” “first affections,”
“shadowy recollections,” and so on), Finzi does something of the sort by exploring
the different harmonic and intervallic relationships of his musical material.
From the beginning of the ninth stanza to the end of the poem, Wordsworth
rises, in the words of Gingerich, “to a supreme height of moral grandeur.”23 The
startling power with which the poet expresses the potency of his experiential
belief is matched by the flux and reflux of Finzi’s music. The forward surge of
the antecedent part of each musical sentence or section in stanza 9 is met by the
subsidence of the consequent sentence or section. For example, the dizzy raptures
of “O joy! that in our embers / Is something that doth live,” underpinned with
the first few measures by ebullient, sixteenth-note palpitations, is met later by
the plodding resistance of “But for those obstinate questionings / Of sense and
outward things.” The mysterious polyphony of “Blank misgivings of a Creature /
Moving about in worlds not realized” is arrested by the homophonic oscillations of
“our mortal Nature / Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised.” The fragment “But
for those first affections, / Those shadowy recollections” stops, as if momentarily
entranced in love, wonder and awe, at the end of “Uphold us, cherish, and have
power to make / Our noisy years seem moments in the being / Of the eternal
Silence.” The line “truths that wake, / To perish never” thrusts forward to lead
efficaciously, via the diatonic assurances of the immortality motif and a solemn
choral procession, to the sixteenth-note undulations of oceanic origin and oneness,
“Our souls have sight of that immortal sea / Which brought us hither.”
Then, the second “joyous song” passage at the beginning of stanza 10
suggested to Finzi a recapitulation of musical material from stanza 3. The playful,
self-confident manner of “We in thought will join your throng” is ennobled by
the aching beauty of the climactic “Though nothing can bring back the hour / Of
splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower”; the D@ major pungency of “We
will grieve not, rather find / Strength in what remains behind” by the chromatic
propensity of “the soothing thoughts that spring / Out of human suffering.”
The epilogue, stanza 11, a lovely, tranquil tenor solo—sublimely beautiful,
ineffably blissful at the lines “That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality; / Another
race hath been, and other palms are won”—concludes with an unaccompanied
choral statement of “Thanks to the human heart by which we live, / Thanks to its
tenderness, its joys, and fears.” Finzi utilizes simple compositional components—
vertical harmonies, a diatonic melody, rhythm patterned on the agogic stress of the
text—to close the work with a deep poignancy.
Stephen Banfield, who favors an interpretation of the poem as a lament for
Wordsworth’s failing creative power, sees Finzi’s final choral section as “not
merely ambivalent but lame,” because it “emphasizes the uncomfortable flatness
of Wordsworth’s” penultimate lines: “Thanks to the human heart by which we
live, / Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears.”24 In Banfield’s reading of the
ode, Wordsworth:
cannot come to terms with what he lost with the passing of childhood.
Structurally and logically the latter part of the poem, beginning with stanza 9,
represents a recovery, a solution, a claim that the affection for and union with
Nature that have been lost have been replaced by something more dear because
more adult and profound. … But [as Banfield continues] if one studies the
final three stanzas, one becomes uncomfortably aware that … nostalgia cannot
be exorcised by a philosophy which stresses its own compensatory features.
Wordsworth does not finally convince us, in lines such as the last eight of stanza
10, that what he has gained makes up for what he has lost.25
Wordsworth’s last line—“Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears”—“is
poised between the positive ‘thoughts’ at the beginning and the negative ‘tears’ at
the end. But though the content of the line denies the tears their supremacy, it is
quite literally the tears which have the last word.”26
On the other hand, Gingerich’s exegesis of Wordsworth’s ode finds in the last
stanzas “the real heart of the poem [containing] the ripe fruition of all that has
gone before,” where the poet resolves his problem into a continuity, “by finding
a deeper basis for [it] in human experience. And this law of continuity, looked at
from the standpoint of the central will, reveals that the principles of immanence
and transcendence are parts of the self-same thing.”
The heaven that lay about his infancy the poet still finds residing, fresh and
blooming, in his own heart. … Though certain elements of Nature, as represented
earlier in the poem, lay a heavy weight upon the soul, now every hill and brook
and cloud and flower give him intimations of immortality—‘thoughts that lie too
deep for tears.’ The shadowy idea of pre-existence itself is lost in the glory of
man’s present divinity. The past and the future, birth and death, and memory and
hope, are drawn into the living present of the soul’s mystic being; and earth and
heaven, and Nature and God, the clouds that gather round the setting sun and the
eye that keeps watch over man’s mortality—all attest to the high instincts and
mighty volitions within us that cannot die, and to the eternal tenderness and hope
in that human heart by which we live.27
Hence Intimations of Immortality is not simply a lament for Wordsworth’s

failing creative powers—it is more than that—and Finzi’s final choral section is not
ambivalent or lame (pace Banfield) but perfectly apposite: another acknowledgment
of Finzi’s deep comprehension of the meaning of the poetic ode. To represent the
common experience of humankind, Finzi initiates the end of his work with the
chief musical expression of humanity since time immemorial: unaccompanied
choral singing. (In fact, unaccompanied choral singing is reserved by Finzi for
the crucial lines in Wordsworth’s poem: the end of stanza 4—“Whither is fled the
visionary gleam? / Where is it now, the glory and the dream?”—and the middle of
stanza 9 after “High instincts”—“before which our mortal Nature / Did tremble like
a guilty Thing surprised”.) Truly, as Gingerich says, “since feeling and intensity
of perception are permanent and universal powers of the mind … the mystical
experience is not a thing of time and place but belongs to all ages and races.”28
The final measures of Intimations of Immortality evoke the end of An Oxford
Elegy. There, in a magical paragraph, the chorus mellifluously chants the last
set of lines spoken moments earlier by the narrator, though accompanied by the
orchestra.
Why faintest thou? I wander’d till I died.

Roam on! The light we sought is shining still.
Our tree yet crowns the hill,
Our Scholar travels yet the loved hill-side.
The tree against the sky is of the greatest significance. Whereas in The Scholar-
Gipsy the author passively “waits for the spark from heaven to fall,” in Thyrsis he
actively “seeks” a “fugitive and gracious light.” The light in Thyrsis replaces the
spark in The Scholar-Gipsy, and in the final stanzas it becomes associated with
the tree. This hymn-like ending suggested in Finzi’s conclusion is a benedictory
prayer of gratitude for the imaginative life. Thus Arnold’s “fugitive and gracious
light” coincides with Wordsworth’s “visionary gleam,” signaled by his tree in
stanza 4. And so the final measures of both works feature a chromatically inflected
fourth scale degree—in the former, a reiterated raised fourth in D minor (g#); in the
latter, a reiterated raised fourth in F major (b$).
An Interchange of Ideas
Surely, the similarities between the two works are not a fortuitous coincidence. The
two men discussed frequently their creative endeavors. Finzi was completing his
Wordsworth setting during the time when Vaughan Williams had begun his Arnold
adaptation, and he may have attended the first private performance of An Oxford
Elegy. Finzi intentionally imitated the modal-diatonic assurances of Vaughan
Williams and his blend of grandeur and intimacy. There are differences, of course.
Vaughan Williams’s adaptation employs a narrator, continuing an experiment with
the medium he used in A Song of Thanksgiving, whereas Finzi prefers a tenor to
represent his voice.
Nevertheless, there is a curious intersection between the two works. Vaughan
Williams frequently thought in terms of symbolic musical motifs on which to
base his visionary explorations, and, when creating his Arnold adaptation, he
incorporated compositional material from his early Harnham Down, which Finzi
knew from his Harrogate days. What that signifies is unclear, but Harnham Down
was essayed at a time when Vaughan Williams was setting other Arnold poems
in which certain literary themes are treated by the author: the attempt to distance
himself from the confusions of the new industrial world and his own confusion
in the face of it, the search for a mystical truth or the eternal values of a lost
pastoral age, and the struggle to keep faith with long-held ideals. It is difficult
to believe that the references to Vaughan Williams’s An Oxford Elegy in Finzi’s
Intimations of Immortality are unconscious and unintentional. The implications
of their chosen texts and the manner in which they structured their works seem to
indicate otherwise.
Chapter 8 Appendix: William Wordsworth’s Intimations of Immortality as

Set by Gerald Finzi
I
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn whereso’er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
II
The Rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the Rose,
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where’er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.
III
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity;
And with the heart of May
Doth every Beast keep holiday;—
Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
Shepherd-boy!
IV
Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;

My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fullness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.
Oh evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning,
This sweet May-morning,
And the Children are culling
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother’s arm:—
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
—But there’s a Tree, of many one,
A single Field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The Pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
V
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But He
Beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature’s Priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.
VI
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a Mother’s mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely Nurse doth all she can
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,

Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.
***************************************
IX
O joy! that in our embers

Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest;
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised:
But for those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence in a season of calm weather
Though inland far we be,
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither,
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the Children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
X
Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young Lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound!
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
XI
And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
I lovely yet;
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Notes
1 Howard Ferguson, “Gerald Finzi (1901–1956),” Music and Letters (April 1957):
130–35.
2 Most of Finzi’s surviving correspondence is deposited in the Bodleian Library,
Oxford University and exists only in photocopy, the holographs having been
destroyed by fire. For published letters, see Howard Ferguson and Michael Hurd,
Letters of Gerald Finzi and Howard Ferguson (Woodbridge, 2001).
3 Stephen Banfield, “Finzi and Wordsworth,” Finzi Trust Friends Newsletter, 10
(Winter 1992), n.p., reprinted in Rolf Jordan (ed.), The Clock of the Years: An
Anthology of Writings on Gerald and Joy Finzi (Lichfield, 2007), p. 130 passim.
4 See John C. Dressler, Gerald Finzi: A Bio-Bibliography (Westport, CT, 1997), p. 2;
Michael Kennedy, The Works of Ralph Vaughan Williams (London, 1964), p. 164;
and Ursula Vaughan Williams, R.V.W.: A Biography of Ralph Vaughan Williams
(London, 1964), p. 196.
6 Ibid., pp. 178 and 196.
7 See, for example, Kennedy, The Works of Ralph Vaughan Williams, pp. 286–90 and
Ursula Vaughan Williams, R.V.W., pp. 267 and 297.
8 Dressler, p. 14.
9 Hugh Cobbe, Letters of Ralph Vaughan Williams 1895–1958 (Oxford, 2008),
p. 533.
10 Kennedy, The Works of Ralph Vaughan Williams, p. 305 and A Catalogue of the
Works of Ralph Vaughan Williams, 2nd ed. (Oxford, 1996), p. 187.
12 Solomon Francis Gingerich, Essays in the Romantic Poets (New York, 1969),
p. 144.
13 Ibid., p. 147.
14 A. Dwight Culler, Imaginative Reason: The Poetry of Matthew Arnold (New
Haven, CT, 1966), pp. 183, 256, and 260.
15 Harnham Down is the first movement of Two Impressions for Orchestra that
Vaughan Williams began in 1904 and finished in 1907; the second movement, The
Woods of Westermain, has not survived. All of the manuscripts, housed in the British
Library along with most of Vaughan Williams’s other papers, were donated in 1960
by the widow of the composer; the original bequest forms British Library Add.
MS. 50361–50482, but many more items have since been added to the collection.
Harnham Down is included in Add. MS. 57278.
16 Joy Finzi, journal entry, 19 July 1952, in Banfield, Gerald Finzi, p. 14.
17 Finzi was well acquainted with Wordsworth and was familiar with the Ode from
a relatively early age. In Finzi’s collection of books, Hutchinson’s 1917 edition of
Wordsworth’s poems is the earliest volume of the twenty-six about Wordsworth’s
and his sister’s writings; a further twenty are about the poet alone. Most of these were
purchased in the 1940s, “but one of the books … was bought in 1926.” Moreover,
he owned a copy of Garrod’s Lectures and Essays (1923), one of the essential
exegeses of Wordsworth’s poetic thought. Banfield, “Finzi and Wordsworth,”
pp. 134–5.
18 The Finzi manuscript collection in the Bodleian Library contains three copies of
Intimations of Immortality. Included in the collection is the complete autograph
full score, described within as a “sketch,” in two volumes with the voice parts
omitted, and an autograph vocal score and “drafts” in a third volume (Finzi, MSS.
Mus. C.392/1–3). A separate volume contains a second autograph vocal score,
which appears to duplicate the other (Finzi, MSS. Mus. b.43). My description
of the manuscripts follows. c.392/1–3. Op. 29, ‘Intimations of Immortality’ by
Wordsworth, set for tenor solo, chorus and orchestra, dedicated to Adeline M.
Vaughan Williams. Piano score pr. 1950. c.392/1. Autograph full score, voice parts
omitted, bars 1–301. (i) + 69 leaves. (N.B.: In the dance-like section, Finzi has
added in blue ink the Chinese Block and Tenor Drum (or deep S.D. without snares).
Was this an afterthought or a way to order the score? For most of it is in black ink
with occasional additions in red ink, and the measures are numbered in red ink
as well.) c.392/2. The same, bars 302 to end. 87 leaves. N.B.: on fol. 133, Finzi
ceases to write the music, and pens the following note: “590 to 597 / repeats 175
to 182 / [then separated by virgules] 590–591–592–593–594–596[sic]–597 / Bar
598 (figure 11) is the / same orchestrally as 183, / but the chorus / is different. 599
chorus only, / different from 184. 600 to 620 / duplicates 185 to 205, but chorus
is different, in the matter of words, up to 609[.]” The music continues on fol. 134.
c.392/3. Autograph fair copy of piano score and (fols 86–97) drafts. (ii) + 97 pages.
(Additional manuscripts, kept in a box. Nos. 1–11 were received from Boosey &
Hawkes, 1978. All except the hired playing parts were prepared for engravers, some
by Howard Ferguson. b.43.8. Op. 29. “Intimations of Immortality.” Autograph
piano score. Folios 123–166.)
19 Stephen Banfield, “The Immortality Odes of Finzi and Somervell,” Musical Times,
156 (1975): 531.
20 McVeagh references works by Holst and Walton: “The giojose orchestral gathering
dance, with hammered dissonant triads, pursuing brass calls, syncopations, and a
catchy xylophone tune, owes something to The Hymn of Jesus and to Belshazzar’s
Feast.” Diana McVeagh, Gerald Finzi: His Life and Music (Woodbridge, 2005), p.
189.
21 McVeagh cites the influence of Brahms at this point: “Compare ‘Denn alles Fleish
es ist wie Gras’ from the Deutsches Requiem—the same pedal note, triplet, key, and
tessitura.” McVeagh, Gerald Finzi, p. 189.
22 Culler, p. 250.
23 Gingerich, p. 151.
24 Banfield, “The Immortality Odes of Finzi and Somervell,” p. 531.
25 Ibid., p. 529.
26 Ibid.
27 Gingerich, pp. 151–2.
28 Ibid., p. 117.
Chapter 9
Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra
by Edmund Rubbra
in it he had fused the basic elements of the symphony with the special requirements
needed in the composition of choral music. … It would have been entirely natural for
Rubbra to have aimed for such a fusion, because these two genres—the symphony
and choral music—are the most important areas of his music. (Ralph Scott Grover)1
It was inevitable that Edmund Rubbra would eventually write a choral symphony,
thus fusing the two main strands of his mature creativity. (John Pickard)2
The Literature about Rubbra and Symphony No. 9
Edmund Rubbra (1901–86) left a rather large oeuvre of compositions in many

genres which, with few exceptions, exhibit the primary attributes of an eclectic
compositional idiom—expressive lyricism through tonal centricity and formal
development through contrapuntal or polyphonic means—much influenced
by neo-medievalism and modality, two elements reflecting his philosophical-
religious position (that is, Rubbra was a mystic and visionary by nature, a Roman
Catholic by conversion). One would think that such a large body of interesting and
challenging musical literature, by a composer who was given to explaining it in
print, would have its respectively large collection of scholarly criticism. Yet that
is not the case, for there have been few comprehensive publications on Rubbra’s
music—one encounters a number of periodical essays commenting upon his
progress at various stages; the more significant and longer articles deal with all of
the symphonies in general or particular symphonies in specific, the most important
writers of which are Hugh Ottaway, Elsie Payne, and Harold Truscott—and, in
fact, only three book-length treatments.3
Edmund Rubbra: Composer, edited by Lewis Foreman, was for many years
the only volume—the imprint of a rather obscure press and difficult to obtain—to
include an introductory autobiographical sketch by the composer and chapters,
each by a different author (including those above), addressing Rubbra’s orchestral
style and various genres, especially, in two exemplary chapters (7 and 8), the
choral music.4 Modeled on this symposium, The Music of Edmund Rubbra by
Ralph Scott Grover became the definitive work on the composer upon its release
in 1993. Though Grover’s book reproduced and augmented the autobiographical
essay and included a superb examination of the choral music (Chapter 9), his
consideration of the symphonies (in Chapters 2, 3, and 4; at 163 pages, his
longest discourse of a compositional category) underscored the perception of the
musical world that Rubbra was essentially a composer of symphonies.5 In Edmund
Rubbra: Symphonist, Leo Black continued this trend by concentrating on Rubbra’s
symphonic creations, but his narrative included discussions of the choral literature
when pertinent to his main subject.6
Thus, despite Rubbra’s position as a composer of symphonies—before World
War Two he produced four of them in rapid succession (No. 1 in 1935–37, No. 2
in 1937, No. 3 in 1938–39, and No. 4 in 1941–42), whereas in the post-war period
he released seven at a protracted rate (No. 5 in 1947–48; No. 6 in 1953–54; No.
7 in 1957; No. 8 in 1966–68; No. 9 in 1971; No. 10 in 1974; and No. 11 in 1977–
79)—he left an impressively large corpus of choral music, the majority of which
was composed after his conversion to Roman Catholicism in 1948, accounting for
the shift from the symphonic genre and, consequently, the appearance at longer
intervals of the last seven symphonies. Many of the works confirm his intense
interest in religious and philosophical texts: Mass settings, various other Catholic
liturgical texts and hymns, and passages from the Old and New Testaments, and
settings that range from Alcuin of York through such metaphysical poets as St
John of the Cross, John Donne, and Henry Vaughan, to Gerard Manley Hopkins.
The finest include The Dark Night of the Soul, Op. 41, no. 1, a setting of the poem
by St. John of the Cross for contralto soloist, SATB chorus, and a small orchestra
consisting of strings, woodwinds, two horns, trumpet and timpani; The Morning
Watch, Op. 55, on Vaughan’s magnificent poem, for mixed voices and orchestra;
the Missa in Honorem Sancti Dominici, Op. 66, Rubbra’s sublime Mass in Latin for
unaccompanied voices, written in celebration of his conversion to Catholicism and
intended for normal liturgical use; the Song of the Soul, Op. 78, an extraordinary
setting of another St John of the Cross text in translation by Roy Campbell, scored
for SSATBB chorus, strings, harp, and timpani; Lauda Sion, Op. 110, one of the
pinnacles in Rubbra’s choral output scored for a cappella double mixed choir,
soprano and baritone soli; Inscape, Op. 122, a beautiful suite of poems by Gerard
Manley Hopkins for mixed voices, strings, and harp; Natum Maria Virgine, Op.
136, a cantata in English scored for baritone solo, mixed choir, and small orchestra
with harp and bells; and Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra, Op. 140 (subtitled “The
Resurrection”), Rubbra’s masterpiece for soloists—narrator (contralto), Jesus
(baritone), and Mary Magdalene (soprano)—chorus and orchestra which, in fact,
fuses the two main areas of his mature creativity.
When examining Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra, scholars have struggled
with its status as symphony or oratorio. For example, citing the commentary of
Elsie Payne, who believed the work to be a choral symphony, as a foil to his
opinion that it is an oratorio-like work, Ralph Scott Grover took Payne to task for
arguing in favor of the symphonic status of the work in her (choral) contribution to
the Foreman symposium, entitled “Non-Liturgical Choral Music”; yet Grover, who
could have discussed the work in his chapter about choral music, did something
Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra by Edmund Rubbra 219
of the sort by arguing for the choral status of the work in his chapters about the
symphonies!7 Conversely, Leo Black avoids committing himself by writing:
“Leaving aside the academic question, ‘in what sense is this a symphony?’, the
work’s overpoweringly even pace and almost uniformly somber nature are likely to
reserve it to true devotees.”8 In his perceptive article “Redeeming Rubbra: Generic
Fusion in the Sinfonia Sacra,” John Pickard draws attention to the composer’s
declaration that his work was indeed a symphony and not an oratorio, and examines
some of the palpable symphonic processes used by Rubbra to support the narration
and devotional commentaries.9
These scholars (Black tacitly) consider the work—with its admixture of vocal
soloists, accompanied recitative-narration, large-scale choruses and Lutheran
chorales, and orchestra—a fusion of elements and styles; indeed, the word fusion,
or its variation, is used repeatedly to describe it. Payne concludes: “Rubbra’s
choice and methods of fusing heterogeneous material and styles is … subtle and
cautious”;10 Grover writes: “I feel certain that Rubbra’s main reason for regarding
it as his finest work was his conviction that in it he had fused the basic elements of
the symphony with the special requirements needed in the composition of choral
music. … It would have been entirely natural for Rubbra to have aimed for such
a fusion, because these two genres—the symphony and choral music—are the
most important areas of his music”;11 and Pickard declares: “It was inevitable that
Edmund Rubbra would eventually write a choral symphony, thus fusing the two
main strands of his mature creativity.”12
Various works showing such generic fusion are mentioned by them as
(possible) predecessors. Payne points to Britten’s War Requiem (1961–62), with
its juxtaposition of the Latin liturgical text with the English words of a non-
Christian poet, and Tippett’s Child of Our Time (1939–41), with its use of negro
spirituals together with unrelated original material; Grover suggests (among
others) Vaughan Williams’s A Sea Symphony (1903–09), though it is almost
entirely choral throughout in its four discrete movements setting the words by
an American poet, Walt Whitman; and Black cites Mahler’s Eighth (1906–07), a
work in two parts featuring the Latin hymn Veni Creator Spiritus, and Havergal
Brian’s very first, the “Gothic” Symphony (1919–27), also a two-part work ending
in a Latin setting of the Te Deum, as well as an earlier work, Beethoven’s Ninth
Symphony (1822–24), considered the standard of perfection by many, which
however calls for singers only in its finale. Interestingly, no one has invoked a
work performed numerous times in nineteenth-century England, superficially
very like Beethoven’s in its three instrumental movements culminating in a large
section for voices, which brilliantly fuses a wide spectrum of forms and textures
from recitative to aria and fugue to chorale (for example, no. 8 incorporates “Nun
danket alle Gott”), Mendelssohn’s Lobgesang (1840), though it, and works like
it, continued the trend of composers established by Beethoven (in his exemplum
classicum) toward novel forms, heterogeneous and hybridized, that was such a
feature of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.13
Perhaps an overlooked source for Rubbra’s Ninth Symphony is the music of

Hubert Parry, who attempted at the end of the nineteenth century to create a new
choral-orchestral form from seventeeth-century models. Indeed, two of these—The
Love that Casteth out Fear (1904) and The Soul’s Ransom (1906)—are both styled
“Sinfonia Sacra.” As Jeremy Dibble writes: “This description clearly relates to the
vocal and instrumental forms—the Symphoniae Sacrae—of … Baroque composers
such as Giovanni Gabrieli, and more significantly his German pupil, Heinrich
Schütz. Aware of the links between Schütz’ spontaneous vocal structures and the
symphonic choral works of later centuries (most notably those of Brahms such as the
Requiem and Gesang der Parzen), Parry felt the desire to assimilate the devotional
solemnity of this style of vocal music into his own choral meditations.”14 A Song of
Darkness and Light (1898) was the first of his works to reflect his new idea of form,
for though it “is in one sense sectional, the cantata runs without a break as a single
movement.”15 Naturally, Rubbra would have known the works of Parry because
of his connection to the Royal College of Music, Holst, Vaughan Williams, R.O.
Morris, and Gerald Finzi, his exact contemporary, great friend, and Parry devotee.16
Be that as it may, the Sinfonia Sacra seems most strongly linked to the Passions
of J.S. Bach, according to Payne, Pickard, and others, an opinion with which
the present writer concurs. For it “evokes them as models” through the use of a
narrator—Bach used a tenor, Rubbra a contralto (emphasizing the centrality of
women in the biblical drama); both use recitative-arioso passages; the former was
inspired by dance styles, the latter by symphonic processes—together with large-
scale choruses and Lutheran chorales around which pivots the action at key points.17
There is one fundamental difference: whereas Bach focused on the Passion of
Christ, Rubbra is concerned with His Entombment, Resurrection, and Ascension.
It seems unlikely that this resemblance was coincidental, but Rubbra is known
to have stated the following: “When I study the music of the past, the antennae of
my imagination automatically dwell on certain interesting features of the music I
am studying, and later, unconsciously, some of these may find expression in my
own music. I never take over an idea or a musical formula from an earlier epoch
and use it as though it were a fixed and unalterable fact in its own right. Material of
the past should be regarded as fertilizer for the imagination and if one assimilates
it unconsciously, one avoids the danger of disrupting one’s work through a conflict
of styles.”18
That Rubbra should choose to model his Sinfonia Sacra on the Passions of
Bach is entirely understandable, for he revered the great composer, as is clear from
his article of 1950.
Bach is a central figure in the art of music. He has a way of dividing the whole
epoch of Western music into the before and the after. He is the last of the
contrapuntists: the first of the harmonists to make of harmony a vehicle for what
Spengler asserts is the predominant feature of Western culture, the idea of infinity.
But this division into two categories gives a false impression of Bach’s music if
we do not at the same time realize that they are united in a conception loftier than
any art can be, and which it is the function of the greatest art to serve. Religious
emotion, which is an ever-present background to Bach’s musical thought, has,
in the great composers that followed him, been but an intermittent inspiration.
But it is noteworthy that in their single examples of religious art on a large scale
Beethoven, Brahms, Verdi and Fauré reached heights not reached in their other
work. This was achieved, not by the slightest alteration of style, but by viewing
it in the light of a greater vision sub specie aeternitatis, and thus raising it to the
highest potentiality. … But if Bach points the way, can we follow him?19
It is reasonable to posit that Rubbra in his magnum opus was attempting to

emulate Bach’s example. The result is an utterance unified “in a conception loftier
than any art can be” that perhaps “reached heights not reached in his other work.”
“It is not only a statement of his own religious beliefs and attitudes (with its final
emphasis on the joy of the Resurrection following the agony of The Crucifixion),”
as Payne believed, “but also a statement of his accumulated musical styles and
idioms, above all of his symphonic techniques and his methods of setting words to
music”—in short, of generic fusion; and, as Pickard writes, “if we are to understand
Rubbra’s largest work—the one the composer himself considered his finest—it is
important to examine the nature of this generic fusion.”20
Rubbra’s Compositional Approach, Autographs, and Overview of the Work
Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra, was premiered on 20 February 1973 by the

Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra under the direction of Sir Charles
Groves; the soloists were Norma Procter (contralto), Benjamin Luxon (baritone),
and Miriam Bowen (soprano). It had been completed by Rubbra on Good Friday
1972 after a lifetime of composition and the creation of the bulk of his music, and,
thus, was undoubtedly the result of an inner compulsion. At the age of seventy-
two, Rubbra—charming, dignified, intellectual, and spiritual—had long been a
recognized member of the musical establishment. The first four symphonies had
established his reputation as a leading composer of his generation, and, as a result,
after World War Two he joined the faculty (as a lecturer) at Worcester College,
Oxford University (1947–68) and taught composition at the Guildhall School of
Music (1961–74). His remarkable productivity led to a number of honors. As early
as 1938, he had received the Collard Fellowship, followed in 1955 by the Cobbett
Medal for “Services to Chamber Music”; and two universities had conferred
honorary doctorates on him in 1949 (Durham) and 1959 (Leicester)—a third was
to do so in 1978 (Reading), while in 1960 he was made a CBE.
In the personal sphere, Rubbra’s life was full of mixed blessings. A first
marriage to Lillian Duncan, his landlady in Wildwood Road (Hampstead Garden
Suburb), was brief, literally a few months in duration, although for some time he
added her surname to his own (as Duncan-Rubbra). A second marriage in 1933
to Antoinette Chaplin lasted almost a quarter of a century; they settled in Valley
Cottage, at Highwood Bottom near Speen in the Chilterns, where Rubbra began
his astonishingly fluent succession of symphonies and other works and fathered
two sons, Francis (1935) and Benedict (1938). However, extra-marital affairs
from the middle of the 1940s, especially with Colette Yardley, caused a break with
Antoinette in 1957. Black explains:
When he first met Colette … during the war she was a married woman with
a young son. For a while [the] Rubbras and Yardleys were neighbours at
Highwood Bottom. In 1947, however, Colette and Rubbra had a brief liaison
which left her pregnant. Their son, christened Adrian, was brought up with the
Yardley family. Colette and Edmund remained [apart] but on friendly terms for
[some time], then from the 1960s onward his final years were spent with her
after her amicable separation from her husband Hugo. In view of their shared
Catholicism, marriage had to wait not only until Antoinette died in 1979, but
three years longer, until after Hugo’s death.21
A move occurred to Gerrards Cross, Buckinghamshire, where they lived at

Lindens, Bull Lane until Rubbra passed away on 14 February 1986.
Rubbra had been born of poor, working-class parents in Northampton,
England. He attended Kettering Road School, developed a passion for Debussy
and Cyril Scott, and, then, went to Reading University, where he studied with
Gustav Holst (composition), and Evelyn Howard-Jones (piano); his pupilage with
both extended to the Royal College of Music, where R.O. Morris (counterpoint)
became an important teacher (Vaughan Williams, who substituted for Holst in his
absence, less so). Rubbra produced an astonishingly large body of exceptional
compositions; these fell into neglect during the decades just before and after
his death, in all likelihood because his compositional processes did not follow
the radical trends of the Schoenberg-Webern school and because his music was
difficult to classify. Now, we recognize it as “unmistakably mid-twentieth-century
English, but with little trace of the highly chromatic, sensuous, harmonically
ingenious sounds developed by post-Delius figures like John Ireland and Eugene
Goossens … [or] of the pastoral strain found in music of the inter-war years”22
(like Gerald Finzi, with whom he is usually bracketed due to their birth dates and
un-English-sounding names: that is, though the name Finzi is Italian, Rubbra is
thought to be Spanish).
Rubbra’s rise from a beginning with few monetary advantages to a position of
prominence as a successful and highly regarded composer was due, undoubtedly,
to his assiduous nature and methodical working habits. In British Composers in
Interview (1963), he described a long-established routine. A typical day would see
him at his desk for “six hours”; he liked if possible to have a piano “at hand,” and
an average sitting could produce from “two to twenty bars.” Obviously, he worked
“slowly to get things right before going on,” and revised “very little.” However, if
he was dissatisfied with something he produced, it was altered, for he considered
“rubbing out” to be “as creative as adding.” His most startling and frequently
quoted remark—“Frankly, I don’t give form much thought at all. I never know
where a piece is going to go next”—was clarified with the following statement:
My method of working at a lengthy work is to continue steadily from the opening

idea. The excitement of discovery would be lost if I “graphed out” where certain
climaxes, etc., would be. When I begin, my only concern is with fixing a starting
point that I can be sure of. I work each bar as I go along until I have expressed
exactly what I want. When I am at work on one bar I never have any idea where
the next is going to lead. But I have a feeling that it is there and will be discovered
as I need it. My imagination discovers the architecture for me.23
Yet this remark seems to contradict the long gestation and composition of Symphony
No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra, which the composer explained precisely ten years later.
Writing in 1973, Rubbra described how he began working on Sinfonia Sacra in
the early 1960s (it was begun on 19 September 1961, to be exact). He started the
work as a full-scale oratorio on the subject of the Resurrection.
To formalize the structure, each section was to end with a chorale, using 17th-
century tunes in a re-harmonized form. With this structure in mind, I wrote the
Crucifixion section ending with the first chorale, and continued into the contralto
narration beginning with the words “Now in the place where He was crucified”.
[However], I began to feel doubts as to the validity, in our time, of a large-
scale oratorio based on the familiar pattern of recitatives, arias and choruses.
… These doubts so radically affected my original conception of the work that I
felt compelled to put aside the music that I had already written, although I knew
intuitively that it would remain valid as the germ of all that would follow.24
When Rubbra returned to the work after completing the Eighth Symphony in
1968, he finally saw “the formal problem of the work as a symphonic one.” He
drastically cut the original oratorio text, which “made symphonic cohesion more
possible, but the text still lacked strong focal points,” as he wrote, “and my work
on it was not complete until I had the idea of breaking up the narrative by the
introduction of four traditional Latin hymns to be set for chorus: they would act as
periodic summings-up.”
Lastly, instead of setting the words spoken on the road to Emmaus, I decided to
substitute a purely orchestral movement, “Conversation Piece”, which would be
preceded by the narrator speaking [certain] words in order to make more specific
the intention behind the orchestral section … . This interlude would offer the
necessary instrumental variety. Having thus considerably pared down the text,
and decided where the Latin choruses should be placed, I felt that at last I was
in the right frame of mind to continue where I had left off so many years before.
The work … was quickly finished.25
The result of this meticulous approach may be seen in the autographs of Symphony
No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra, of which there are two.26
Add. MS. 62599 is the ink vocal score provided to the publisher by Rubbra to
create the printed vocal score (as is apparent from the pencil emendations of the
editor/compositor added in its preparation). Written on 12-stave manuscript paper,
it was completed by Rubbra, using blue ink, in his immaculate and elegant hand.
Interestingly, the work is not titled (here or in the other autograph) “Symphony No.
9” but, rather, Sinfonia Sacra, Op. 140 (“The Resurrection”); nonetheless, because
the composer viewed it as being, in essence, his Ninth Symphony, it has become
accepted as such and catalogued accordingly. There is but one paste-over at the
bottom of fol. 19v, which the British Library has foliated as fol. 20: a one-system
fragment (that is, a three-stave system for soloist and piano) of three measures for
the narrator (five measures before rehearsal letter 36: “Jesus standing, and knew
not that it was Jesus”). Only two leaves are unused—fol. 15v is blank, as is fol.
25v—and the “Conversation Piece” for orchestra alone is not included. Otherwise,
the score is beautifully and fastidiously executed.
Add. MS. 62600 is the pencil full score. Written on 30-stave orchestral
manuscript paper, it embodies Rubbra’s method of composition employed after
the Eighth Symphony; that is, he wrote “straight into full score, without the
preliminary reduced score which had been [his] previous practice” and, hence,
the calligraphy displays an extraordinary degree of elegance and refinement—
indeed the score is pristine. Rubbra does not indicate the instrumentation on the
first leaf; however, it is discernible from top to bottom as 2 flutes, 2 oboes (oboe
2/cor anglais), 2 clarinets and 2 bassoons; 4 horns, 2 trumpets, 3 trombones and
tuba; percussion (4 timpani; wooden clappers; bass drum; glockenspiel; triangle;
celesta; tubular bells; tam tam); harp; divisi chorus; 3 soloists (baritone/Jesus;
contralto/narrator; soprano/Mary Magdalene); and violins 1 and 2, violas, cellos
and basses. The orchestration is carefully considered—with chamber-like touches
and luxuriant tuttis—and strikingly beautiful. To quote the composer, “the ideas
[were] clothed in an appropriate colour, and the balancing of these colours was an
important element in the overall formal scheme of the symphony.”27 Though this
statement refers to the Eighth Symphony, it is applicable to the Sinfonia Sacra, as
a close examination reveals.
There are four sections in all, running continuously with but one exception,
each of which exhibits elements of solo narration (a quasi-recitative style notable
for its mainly syllabic word-setting) and the choral commentary (Latin hymns and/
or Lutheran chorales) with which they are demarcated. The first section takes as
its terminus ad quo the climax of the Crucifixion—the score is prefaced with the
words “There was darkness over all the earth until the ninth hour”—and “both
the harmony and instrumental colouring are suffused in darkness,” in the words
of Rubbra, “the quiet, almost stifled dissonances … scored for full muted brass,
with muted violas doubling the first trumpet; and the three varied statements of
[a] four-bar motif … interrupted either by the timpani or by pizzicato cellos and
basses that spell out in linear form some of the main notes of the opening chord.”28
This leads to the cry of Jesus (baritone), “Eli, Eli, Lama Sabachthani,” reached
noticeably via horn and clarinets, in that order, and then supported by clarinets
with bassoons—which the SA chorus sings in translation as “My God, My God,
why hast Thou forsaken me?”—and subsequently to “It is finished; Father, into
Thy hands I commend my spirit,” accompanied by harp, which will become
important in the work, and low strings. As Jesus dies there follows “a powerful
and somewhat chaotic re-statement of the opening music in a condensed form”
(quoting the composer).29 This is underlined by a dramatic timpani part with bass
drum (dramatic because of the triple forte dynamic and the increased rhythmic
notation), brass and strings, depicting the earthquake and the rending of the
Temple veil. An orchestral reflection developed from Jesus’s chromatic (second)
line brings us to the Latin hymn Crux fidelis (Faithful Cross), structured out of yet
another iteration of the opening music on muted strings, punctuated by beating
timpani, while oboes, clarinets, horns, and trumpets are utilized melodically,
and then to Johann Crüger’s (1598–1662) chorale melody (prominent in Bach’s
Passions) “Herzliebster Jesu, was hast du verbrochen,” but here set to the words
Almighty Lord, we pray Thee, teach us always

That Thy will shall be done on earth as in Heaven.
We dare not doubt thy never failing wisdom;
We are thy children.
The latter “is instrumentally stated at first” (Rubbra again), with trombones
and horns in the foreground initially, thereafter strings, “but its chromatic
undertones disappear when it is followed by [the] four-part harmonization for
unaccompanied choir.”30
Commencing without any break, the second section centers on the astonishing
events following the Crucifixion disseminated almost entirely by the narrator
(contralto) in the first of her lengthy recitatives. The harp features conspicuously
during this section (with other instruments employed in the depiction as needed)—
about Joseph of Arimathea, who, “having asked Pilate for the body of Jesus, laid
Him in a new sepulchre, sealing it with a stone” (here, flutes imbricate above horns;
oboes with cor anglais above brass, followed by violins with violas); the visit of the
two women named Mary, who, “wishing to anoint the body, found the tomb empty
except for two angels in shining garments” (the culminating passage for forte brass
is preceded by an oriental-like one for clarinets doubled by harp); and the angels
who tell them in a magical echo chorus of divisi tenors, “He is not here, but is
risen”—which concludes with a substantial and ecstatically set Latin choral piece
(this time without a subsequent chorale), “Resurrexi, et adhunc tecum sum” (“I
arose and am still with thee”) (at rehearsal 24, “Lord, thou hast searched me,” the
disposition of the flutes, clarinets, triangle, and glockenspiel in parallel fourths vis-
à-vis the horns and muted trumpet adds a touch of neo-medievalism to the hymn).
The third section concentrates entirely on the mystery of the Resurrection. With
the cessation of the affirmative Latin chorus’s vigorous postlude, it unfolds through
the second lengthy narration for contralto, initially “accompanied by woodwind

and harp,” as Rubbra concisely notes. The image of Peter and John, who run to
the sepulcher, see the discarded linen and believe, contrasts vividly with that of
Mary Magdalene (soprano), who at first does not know then recognizes Jesus in the
garden (interpolated here is music associated earlier with Christ and his clothing,
the echo chorus, the dark opening, and the orchestral reflection—each with its
efficacious and varied orchestration), and Christ’s words, “Noli me tangere” (Touch
me not), for he has yet to ascend “unto my Father and your Father; and to my God,
and your God” (illustrated by a floating passage for the celesta). This section ends
with the hymn Regina caeli, laetare (“O Queen of Heaven, rejoice”), its canonic
execution in two parts, poco allegretto tempo, continuous crescendo (plus the
addition of harp, timpani, and tubular bells), and Alleluias balancing the heightened
mysticism of the foregoing material. As the former fades away, Rubbra brings in
the chorale “Abide with us and save us,” the tune of which is by Melchior Teschner
(1584–1635), the first portion (“Abide with us and save us in all our earthly strife
/ To show us how to follow the way which thou hast taught, / To love our God the
Father and our neighbour as we ought”) accompanied by a static B major chord (a
halo effect with indications of flageolet execution for the strings), the second (“We
need thy help and guidance, / We need thy perfect life / To show us how to follow
the way which thou hast taught, / To love our God the Father and our neighbour
as we ought”), as Rubbra indicates, niente, without orchestra—a stunning aural
moment in the symphony that intensifies the textual meaning.
The last section tells of the Ascension itself. To indicate a shift of mood and the
passing of time, the final narrative starts, unexpectedly, with a spoken introduction
(contralto) which produces the only musical hiatus in the work: “And behold,
two of them went that same day to a village called Emmaus … and they talked
together of all those things that had happened. And it came to pass that while they
communed together and reasoned, Jesus himself drew near, and went with them.
But their eyes were holden that they should not know him.” Rubbra penciled the
following annotation at the bottom of the score: “Let brass chord at 43 die away;
then narrator speaks. CONVERSATION PIECE should start ‘cold’.” Black has
noted that the spoken narrative “emphasizes the distance between the place where
Jesus was (among the disciples still unaware that the risen Jesus is with them) and
the one where he now is, on the road to Emmaus with Jesus and the same men,
who are now his future apostles.”31 The break/shift is similar to those remarkable
moments found in Vaughan Williams’s An Oxford Elegy and Finzi’s Intimations
of Immortality, both of which Rubbra would have known, though it is a matter
of orientation rather than resemblance. This break is succeeded by an orchestral
interlude labeled by the composer “Conversation Piece” (in an unvarying triple
time used sparingly to this point, mostly dominated by the wind instruments,
though the strings gain ascendency in two striking climaxes, these supported by
timpani with harp and, then, celesta), which shows Rubbra in his most Holstian
vein and, as people converse while walking, similar musical ideas often sound
together, speaking and walking, but at different tempi. Thereafter the narration
of the Ascension is linked to earlier music—as Rubbra put it, “developed from
harmonic or melodic hints found in the opening section of the work.” Jesus, about
to ascend into heaven, reveals to the disciples that they shall be “baptized with
the Holy Ghost”—there is a small choral interjection (“Lord, wilt Thou at this
time restore the Kingdom to Israel?”)—in preparation for their lives of apostolic
vocation. As the “cloud receives Him out of their sight,” the music (divisi strings
and harp), ascending, diminishing, and becoming remote, surrounds Jesus in an
aura of veneration as He disappears from sight (the disappearance is created,
evocatively, by harp and tam-tam, then silence). The final hymn, Viri Galilaei
(“Ye men of Galilee, why wonder you, looking up to heaven?”), proceeds from
that dilatory space to become a magnificent paean of joy (for tutti orchestra with
tubular bells and full brass prevalent). The contiguous chorale by Hans Leo Hassler
(1562–1612), connected to the Passion text “O Haupt voll Blut und Wunden,” is
sung mainly in unison (or octaves) vis-à-vis an orchestral accompaniment replete
with forte brass:
Thy blessing be upon us, O take us to thy home;

Thy sacrifice O Jesu, the greatest love has shown,
Will lead us in thy goodness to everlasting life,
Receive us Lord in mercy into they Father’s realm.
“It offers a final reminder that for all its concluding joy the Sinfonia Sacra is a
reflection on a dark and sacred mystery,” Black writes. “Even the triumphant final
major chord [A major] is colored for some of its duration by a flattened seventh in
an inner part,” the product of a last statement of Hassler’s tune, a “final sign of the
mixture of pain and joy in the Passion and Ascension story.”32
Sinfonia Sacra Examined: Interval Sources and Symphonic Processes
Scholars of Rubbra’s music agree that his compositions stem from a germinal idea
or unit. To explain this feature, one could select from a number of his works, but
the best-known example is the Sixth Symphony (1953–54). Rubbra placed at the
top of his manuscript the four notes E–F–A–B, provoking a controversy between
Hugh Ottaway and Elsie Payne that Rubbra settled in Musical Opinion (1957).
When I … placed those four notes (E–F–A–B) at the beginning of the score of
my Sixth Symphony, my intention was to indicate, not a key, but the interval
sources of the music, each movement beginning with a selection from these
notes (except the last movement, which uses all of them thematically). The
crux of the analytical argument with reference to each movement resides in
the particular selection and not the four notes as a whole. Miss Payne is on
safe ground when she stresses the pervasiveness of the four-note motif and its
continuation (i.e., the opening cor anglais theme) throughout the finale, and Mr.
Ottaway is on safe ground when he disputes the significance of the four notes
in the other movements, but both would have got nearer to the truth of each
movement if they had confined their analysis to the generating power of the
selected notes. The E–F–A of the first movement yields a second and a third as
motivating intervals, the A–E of the slow movement a fifth, and the E–F of the
scherzo a semitone. Analysis will, I think, show that these are the dominating
factors in each movement.33
Rubbra may have been emulating Vaughan Williams, who, in his great Fourth
Symphony in F minor, placed four notes (F, E, G@, F) on his score. Indeed, Rubbra
had written about the work in 1937, acknowledging the unity it achieved by the
presence of the four notes. “What unsuspected possibilities seem to be inherent in
that simple melodic progression of a second plus a third,” he declared. “One could
almost say that this progression is the seed from which all Vaughan Williams’s
music has sprung.”34
How is the germinal unit introduced and how does it generate the ensuing
music in Symphony No. 9? There, it is an opening chord (comprising the notes
E–A–C–F, B–F–A–C from the bottom to the top) from which “spring not only
the basic tonal centers of the work, but the intervals that shape so much of the
vocal writing.”35 It is magical in that it allows the positing of several different
views of the material and of the tonal/modal possibilities of the work. Rubbra
considers it as “basically a chord in which the outer notes, clearly delineating an
A minor tonality, are clouded by an internal diminished fifth (B–F),”36 whereas
John Pickard hears it “as an F major triad with added seventh (E) and diminished
fifth (B),” which “does not affect the intervallic content, but it does make the
symphony’s overall A minor–A major progression less clear-cut.”37 The present
author hears it, rather, as an expression of modality (or even of amodality), a
combination of the Phrygian (E) and Aeolian (A) modes that adumbrates/initiates
the overall Phrygian-Aeolian “developmental arc” of the work. Admittedly, my
perspective is influenced by Elsie Payne’s admirable and thorough discussion of
the modal/amodal character of Rubbra’s music (in Music and Letters), where she
concludes: “The initial unit may indeed be tonally elusive or ambiguous, and if not
completely amodal, it may at least be modally complex or uncertain; but whatever
the tonality and modality of the germinal unit, such is the tonal and modal character
of the complete movement.”38 If the opening chord is reinterpreted as a collection
of notes representing the E Phrygian mode (without G and D), one may account
theoretically for the presence of E–F and B–C, which feature prominently in it as
semitones above the root and fifth, and which Rubbra takes every opportunity to
explore throughout his work (beginning with their linear execution in the four-bar
motif), along with the diminished fifth (B–F) that the composer indicates is “heard
early in the baritone solo setting of Eli, Eli, Lama Sabachthani”—in E Phyrgian
mode—and “used to invoke the deepest meanings in the vocal line.” It is heard
also in the accompaniment (transposed)—in B Phrygian mode—to the subsequent
baritone ascending, semitone line of “It is finished.” Not to be forgotten is the
interval of a perfect fourth (E–A) “between the two bottom notes of the opening
sequence of chords,” which (according to Rubbra) “often brings stability to the
upper harmonies”;39 or, for that matter, the interval of a third, contained in its
internal notes (A–C, F–A). Thus the germinal unit furnishes all of the intervals out
of which Rubbra constructs his symphonic argument, structurally and decoratively,
derived separately from the notes (at the same pitch, inverted, transposed, or
transformed) a semitone (E–F, B–C), third (A–C, F–A), fourth (E–A), or tritone
(B–F, F–B) apart (see Example 9.1).
On the large-scale level, this may be seen in the four sections of the work that
(in the broadest terms) focus on and progress to specific modal centers (E, G, D,
A), contributing to the symphony’s modal direction and symmetry. The former is
illustrated by the outer sections (E to A), while the inner sections exhibit the latter
(G and D), the two notes absent from the opening germinal unit but scale members
of the Phrygian mode and equidistant (via a third) from the fifth degree (B). Hence
the first section (the Crucifixion and its climax) proceeds from an E mode to a G
mode, the second (the Entombment) from a G mode to a D mode, the third (the
mystery of the Resurrection) from a D mode to a B mode, and the fourth (the
Ascension itself) from an E mode to an A mode. These may reflect Bach’s use of
tonality in the elegiac St. Matthew Passion, where E minor (bearing the threnodic
associations of its Phrygian ancestor) is the key of the Crucifixion drama and
inextricably bound to the physical narrative of human guilt (additionally, in the
opening chorus, the key is companioned with its relative major, G, to suggest the
dualisms of guilt versus innocence and physical event versus Christian meaning
that are fundamental to the Passion; and, several times in part one, E minor is
contrasted with E major as well). A minor appears as subdominant to the E minor
tonic or as an E Phrygian (“Wenn ich einmal soll scheiden”) and is connected
with a passive, meditative side of the Crucifixion narrative; B minor is linked to
the harder, bitter side of E minor (“Herzliebster Jesu, was hast du gebrochen”);
and D and G minors to the less tormented, even welcome, view of suffering. Only
in the loosest sense do the successive sections correspond to the movements of a
symphony as normally conceived; nevertheless, the source material revealed at
the outset is treated in a symphonic manner: it is subjected to growth, argument,
metamorphosis, and discussion, and in the final choral-orchestral commentary
brought to a satisfying resolution (see Table 9.1).
Example 9.1 Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra by Edmund Rubbra, germinal unit
(vocal score; Alfred Lengnick, 1972), p. 1
Table 9.1 Sinfonia Sacra schema
Section 1 (The Crucifixion)

Introduction: 4-bar motif × 3 + transition [E Phrygian / A Aeolian]
R2: Jesus: “Eli, Eli …” [E Phrygian]
R3: Jesus: “It is finished” [B Phrygian]
R4: 4-bar motif [E/A]
R5–6: Orchestral reflection [E major]
R7–9: Hymn, Crux fidelis (constructed out of the 4-bar motif) [D minor / D
Dorian]
R10: Orchestra introduction to first chorale [D minor / G Aeolian]
R11: Chorale, “Almighty Lord” [G Aeolian]
Section 2 (The Entombment)

R12– Narration/Contralto
18:
R12–14: “Crucified” melisma / “Jesus” melisma with chords [G minor]
R15 [B@]
R16 [chord oscillations: G@/G, G@/Cþ¼, G@/B@, G/B@, E]
R17 [G]
R18–22 Echo Chorus [chord support: F#¦½, e7, Aþ¼, etc.]
R21: Narration/Contralto [B minor or E minor]
R22– Resurrexi [E Aeolian/F#/E–D]

26:
Section 3 (The Mystery of the Resurrection)

R27– Narration/Contralto (and angels) [D minor]
33:
R27–28 [D minor]
R29: “Jesus” chords [B@/G@]
R30: “Jesus” chords [B]
R31 [D minor]
R32 [F#/e] and “Jesus” chords [G/B@]
R33: Echo Chorus music
R34: Narration/Contralto and Soprano [4-bar motif varied/developed]
R35– Narration/Contralto, Baritone, and Soprano [Orchestral reflection music/E]
36:
R37: Narration/Contralto, Baritone, and Soprano [4-bar motif varied/developed]
R38– Transition and Regina caeli [E Phrygian/B major]
40:
R41– Chorale: “Abide with us” [B major]
42:
Section 4 (The Ascension Itself)
R43: Narrator (spoken)
R44– “Conversation Piece”
51:
R52: Narration/Contralto (4-bar motif music varied/developed) [E/A]
R53: Narration/Baritone and Contralto [excrescence of 4-bar motif music]
R54: Choral interjection, Contralto, and Baritone [excrescence of 4-bar motif/þ¼
chord progression]
R55– Narration/Baritone [“Jesus” melisma/chords varied]
56:
R57– Narration/Contralto [4-bar motif and excrescence]
58:
R59– Viri Galilei and Chorale, “Thy blessing be upon us” [B minor-A Aeolian]
63:
Notes: R = rehearsal number in score. Modality (ambiguous) is shown in brackets.
The chorales that are placed in three of the sections, adding a level of
continuity, grandeur, and intimacy to the architecture, are in the modes of G, B,
and A, respectively. That they held great symbolic meaning to the composer is
apparent, but their initial interval profile (of fourths and fifths) must have increased
their contextual suitability. To close his work, Rubbra selected the great Passion
chorale (using the Phrygian melody of “Herzlich tut mich verlangen” by Hans
Leo Hassler) that in the St. Matthew Passion received the greatest structural and
expressive role. There, it occurs five times (as numbers 21, 23, 53, 63, and 72),
with its most well-known verse, “O Haupt voll Blut und Wunden” (“O head, full
of blood and wounds”), heard at the moment following the beating of Christ and
his condemnation to Crucifixion, though it is sung again with the verse “Wenn
ich einmal soll scheiden” (“When once I must depart”) as Christ dies on the
Cross. Rubbra uses the A (Aeolian) mode for his setting, solemn and grand, of the
following text:
Thy blessing be upon us, O take us to thy home;

Thy sacrifice O Jesu, the greatest love has shown,
Will lead us in thy goodness to everlasting life,
Receive us Lord in mercy into thy Father’s realm.
The melody with its distinctive leap of a fourth is accompanied by flowing

figurations (thirds, triads, then octaves) in the orchestra, the latter of which
contribute to the cadential obfuscation favored here by Rubbra (as opposed to
the routine stops that occur at the end of each phrase of Bach’s Stollen-Stollen-
Abgesang design). The tension of the semitone (C, C#) is apparent in the Stollen,
phrases 1 and 3, at “blessing” (in the orchestral support) and at “sacrifice” (in the
alto and orchestra), and (with the tritone) in the Abgesang, in the seams of phrases
7 and 8, at “mercy into.”
Similar touches, though almost unnoticeable because they are essentially
decorative, may be seen in the chorales that conclude the first and third sections
of the symphonic structure. For the former, Rubbra uses a G minor version of the
Johann Crüger tune (“Herzliebster Jesu, was hast du verbrochen”) that appeared
in the St. John Passion (number 7 instead of number 27), as “O grosse Lieb”
(“O wondrous love”), rather than the arrangements included in the St. Matthew
Passion (see numbers 3, 25, and 55). His unaccompanied adaptation, intimately
profound, is in G (Aeolian) mode (but without key signature) to the following text:
Almighty Lord, we pray Thee, teach us always

That Thy will shall be done on earth as in Heaven.
We dare not doubt thy never failing wisdom;
We are thy children.
The interval of the semitone, emerging from the preceding chromatic orchestral
passage (itself built on an ascending semitone line in the bass instruments), may be
heard at the commencement of phrase 1 (B@, B$ in the bass at “Lord we pray”), but
it is less recognizable aurally at the conclusion of phrase 2 as a small chain—G, A@,
A$, and B@—in the tenor at “as in Heaven”) because of the exquisite dissonances
that enliven so much of the rich harmonization. In actuality, these are but two of
the many examples that permeate the chorale.
For the latter, Rubbra chose Melchior Teschner’s tune (“Valet will ich dir
geben”) in its arrangement as “In meines Herzens Grunde” (“Within my heart’s
recesses”) from the St. John Passion (no. 52) and used the following text:
Abide with us and save us in all our earthly strife

To show us how to follow the way which thou hast taught,
To love our God the Father and our neighbour as we ought.
We need thy help and guidance, We need thy perfect life
To show us how to follow the way which thou hast taught,
To love our God the Father and our neighbour as we ought.
There, it is in E@, whereas here it is in B major, an interval relationship that

Rubbra may have stressed unknowingly but, at any rate, would be missed by the
uniformed listener. (It may be remembered that E@ is Bach’s chosen key to close
both the all-important Herzstück of the dramatic St. John Passion—“In meines
Herzens Grunde” culminates this symmetrical centerpiece—and the work as a
whole.) Rubbra’s inclusion of a key signature is a salient fact, because this chorale
(together with the Latin hymn to which it is adjacent) is the only episode of the
Sinfonia Sacra to feature one, a primary reason for its striking radiance amid the
ambiguous modal music. Rubbra’s setting is abbreviated inasmuch as it deletes
phrases or portions of them (for example, in the canonic first verse, phrase 2 and
the antecedent of the antecedent-consequent unit of phrase 4; in the homophonic
second verse, phrase 2 alone). The semitone is visible as an embellishment (the
combined intervals of E, E#/F*, G#) in the homophonic second verse (in the bass
at “perfect life”); but, significantly, it occurs structurally at the break between
the third and fourth sections (six sharps versus no sharps or flats)—that is, the
cessation before the “Conversation Piece.”
In his discussion of Sinfonia Sacra, Rubbra did not explain his reason for using
chorales other than to “formalize the structure.” But it is obvious that he was
attempting through their insertion to offer a sense of repose from the surrounding
drama of music and words, the former modally complex and uncertain, the latter
monody-like and elocutionary. That they also draw attention to the meaning of
the juncture that has been reached in the unfolding story does not detract from
Rubbra’s explicit incorporation of the four traditional Latin hymns to “act as
periodic summings-up.”40 Pickard has shown how the hymns fulfill this function in
a “profound way,” because “they [were] chosen with great care for their association
with the religious festival proper to the point reached in the narrative”:
“Crux fidelis”, the hymn for Solemn afternoon Liturgy on Good Friday, comes at
the end of the section dealing with the Crucifixion. “Resurrexi”, the Introit from
the Mass on Easter morning, follows the account of the discovery of the empty
tomb. The text is filled with Alleluias, prohibited during the period of Lent. The
third Latin setting is the Marian Antiphon, “Regina coeli”. Traditionally sung as
an antiphon in honour of the Blessed Virgin, Rubbra places it directly after the
account of Christ’s appearance to Mary Magdalene in the garden. Finally, the
Narrator’s account of the Ascension leads into the final setting, the Introit for
Mass on Ascension Day, “Viri Galilei”.
Thus, while the events narrated in “Sinfonia Sacra” effectively begin where
the Passions leave off, the work also attempts to reflect something of the liturgy
proper to the period described. The Passion settings were embedded within
the liturgy, forming the climax of Holy Week and intended for devotional use.
Rubbra’s work is a concert piece, just like Haydn’s The Creation, Mendelssohn’s
Elijah or Elgar’s The Apostles, but it comes closer than any of them (or indeed
most sacred oratorios) to integration with the liturgy itself.41
The motivating intervals (E–F–B–A) for the melodic lines of Crux fidelis
(“Faithful Cross”) are a development of the kernel (E–F, B–C) from the opening
germinal chord which, in the three varied statements of the four-bar motif, the
timpani or cellos and basses spell out (as C–B, E–F). Together with the cruciform
shape outlined by an ascending and descending second framing a descending
diminished fifth, they become connected throughout the work with the idea of
the Cross. But the shape has more influence on this connection than the intervals,
which is substantiated thereafter by Rubbra’s use of the former for the solo
melisma—G, A@, E@, D, a transposition of E, F, C, B on “crucified”—declaimed by
the narrator at the beginning of the second section. Pickard proposes an identical
thesis in his article, comparing the melisma to Bach’s symbolic use of his own
BACH motto, though he identifies its first occurrence at “crucified,” which in fact
comes after the Crux fidelis hymn.42 Nonetheless, the melodic pattern developed
and repeated throughout Sinfonia Sacra is a brilliant translation into sound of
Rubbra’s opinion of Bach: “All his art and craft is absorbed in the perpetual vision
of the Cross. The poignancy and joy of his music are two facets of this absorption,
and the serenity comes from an assured faith.”43 Because the hymn is constructed
out of a reiteration of the opening chords, the music seems oriented toward an E
mode but is undermined by the conflict (vertically and horizontally) between a C
and C#, which signals D minor or D Dorian. It ends on a D major cadence, via a
unison oscillation (B–C–B–C) of “Crux,” in preparation for the G-mode chorale
(Example 9.2).
The subsequent Latin hymns are more imposing structures than the foregoing
hymn. “Resurrexi” is a tripartite structure with outer sections in an E mode that
frame a middle one in F#, each of which cadences on B, B, and D, the last to usher
in the second contralto narration in D mode. The paired voices of the first section
massage a fifth (E–B) in contrary motion (E–G–A–B/E–D–C#–B), while in the
Example 9.2 Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra by Edmund Rubbra, Crux fidelis
hymn (vocal score; Alfred Lengnick, 1972), p. 5
next section they introduce a second (C#, D#) against a pedal point and ascending
instrumental parallel fourths (cleverly portraying “and my rising up”) that, in the
last section, become quartal harmony (yet still moving in parallel motion). The
oppositional semitone elements are everywhere in evidence, especially in the first
and second section at the Alleluias (D#, D) and at the line “Thou knowest my sitting
down” (C#, C), while the dichotomy between the performing forces of chorus and
orchestra is exceptionally engaging and pronounced, as it is in the next hymn.
In Regina caeli, the musical lines unfold in an antiphonal or alternating manner:
first in the chorus, supported by an unchanging instrumental B chord, then in the
orchestra, as the singers sustain the final syllable of their alleluia. The symphonic
discussion of the interval of the fourth continues at the second line—rather like
the parallel movement of the preceding hymn, but vertically as well—as does the
modal antagonism caused by the dissonant notes of D, D#/G, G#/A, A#, before the
hymn resolves into the consonant chorale.
The majestic final hymn, Viri Galilaei, is built upon an ostinato edifice of
fourths (B, F#) heard originally in the accompaniment at the baritone’s ascending,
semitone line of “It is finished.” It actually consists of two halves (the first
commencing as described) with an overall modal progression from B to A, and
embodying a contrast between the dissonant chords of the first half (especially
at the Alleluias) and the polyphonic style of the second—a last, great exposure
(vertically and horizontally) of the interval sources of the germinal unit (semitone,
third, fourth, and tritone) before the closing chorale.
It is Pickard’s belief that the placement of the Latin hymns with the chorales
“implies an ecumenical relationship inconceivable to a pre-twentieth century
artist,” which “is really the most radical aspect of the work, one that only came
into being after a long gestation.”
It is also highly characteristic that Rubbra should have avoided overstating

its significance in written statements, even though we know the relationship
meant much to him. Rubbra was, after all, a non-Conformist, turned Roman
Catholic. Moreover, he retained a lifelong and active interest in all religions,
not just Christianity. It is also significant that Rubbra had subtitled his Eighth
Symphony “Hommage à Teilhard de Chardin”, in tribute to the Jesuit priest
and paleontologist who sought a reconciliation between Church teaching and
Darwinian evolutionary theory.44
As already mentioned, there are three long narrations in the second, third, and
fourth sections of the symphony, penned in a style not unlike the monody found
as “arioso” in Bach’s Passions and marvelous in their emotional power. These free
recitatives revolve around a pivot note, examples of which may be illustrated with
almost any passage from the work inasmuch as the method is ubiquitous. The first
narration proceeds from and returns to the starting pitch of G, then very shortly
thereafter shifts to the pitch of D, undulating around it. The G-centric passage
features the vocal melisma, “crucified” (cited previously), which is connected
to the idea of the Cross and which appears frequently throughout the work. For
example, it returns in an altered (or developed) form in section four where Christ
informs his followers of their imminent baptism by the Holy Spirit, with the words
“but ye shall receive power,” emphasizing the connection between that power and
the Cross. The melisma is also used as orchestral accompaniment with or without
its vocal counterpart. Here it is supported by the orchestra (in augmentation),
but later it may be seen alone, immediately before the commencement and at the
conclusion of the Echo Chorus at the words “Behold two men stood by them in
shining garments” and “be crucified, and the third day rise again” (Example 9.3).
The D-centric passage exhibits a vocal melisma on the word “Jesus” that, soon,
is used for “linen,” thereby establishing links with the body of Christ, the fabric
in which it was clothed, and the sepulchre where it was buried. More importantly,
however, the vocal melisma is tied to a series of chords that, in this instance, flow
from and return to a G Major chord (B@þ¼, Cþ¼, g6, Dþ¼ over a pedal B@/F/B@) (Example
9.4). Together these return at significant points in the work. For example, they are
heard in section three at rehearsal number 29, where John “saw the linen clothes
lying”; at 30, where Peter saw “the napkin that was about his head … not lying
with the linen clothes, but wrapped together”; and at 32/6–12, where Mary stood
“weeping” and “stooped down, and looked into the sepulchre.”
Summation: Coherence with the Greatest Profundity
All of the elements in Rubbra’s Sinfonia Sacra—the orchestral and choral sound
palettes, the poignant chorales and Latin hymns, the undulating solo vocal parts—
cohere with the greatest profundity. The opening chord from which “spring not
only the basic tonal centers of the work, but the intervals that shape so much of
the vocal writing” generates the ensuing musical development in a manner that is
convincingly symphonic, even though some continue to hear the work as a cantata
or condensed passion. Yet Rubbra himself considered it a symphony rather than an
oratorio, and Payne wrote: “it possesses the essential elements of the symphonic
genre—at one extreme event and drama, at the other contemplation and un-event,
plus the necessary moments of relaxation.” Certainly, it is a fusion of the emotional
and intellectual in music, and the product of ratiocination rather than intuition.
It is, as symphonies generally are, a summary to date of all the facets of the
composer’s musical thought. In it are to be found characteristic germinal ideas
and their expansions (especially profuse here in so far as this is a choral as
well as an instrumental work)—melodically, an intervallic preponderance of
minor thirds, semitones and diminished fifths; rhythmically, an adherence to
the natural sounds of both English and Latin words; in addition, more subtle
symbolisms and rhapsodic, melismatic stretches of melody … . There are also
frequent fluctuations of momentum within each of the … [sections] which are
very characteristic of Rubbra’s music whatever the overall tempo may be. And,
Example 9.3 Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra by Edmund Rubbra, “Crux” vocal
melisma (vocal score: Alfred Lengnick, 1972), p. 10
Example 9.4 Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra by Edmund Rubbra, D-centric

passage (vocal score; Alfred Lengnick, 1972), p. 11
above all, there is in the work the heterogeneous amalgam of material and/
or styles which has typified Rubbra’s … mosaic-like large-scale structures—
English words are set against Latin ones, seventeenth century tunes introduced
in twentieth century settings, and—although only in one place—the spoken
word instead of recitative.45
Before closing, I should like to suggest another reading of Sinfonia Sacra,

adapted from Black’s alternate view of the Sixth Symphony: he believes the
sources of its four notes (E–F–A–B) are the initials of Rubbra himself, his first
son Francis, his wife Antoinette and his other son Benedict. “Rubbra settled the
Payne-Ottaway argument by saying both were right about ‘E–F–A–B’, but passed
over its function as an acrostic. Musically speaking, even Schumann could have
been no more explicit, and the complex of names, notes and life points to concern
for those his conduct had caught up in an inextricable tangle of emotions.”46 Using
this analogy, is it possible that the notes subsumed in the opening chord of Sinfonia
Sacra (E–A–C–F, B–F–A–C) signify all of the Rubbras—Edmund, Antoinette,
Collette, Francis, Benedict, and Adrian? Rubbra started, stopped, began again, and
finished his greatest composition during the time he and Collette were at last able
to live together, and one assumes that finally all of the family members were aware
of their history and the complications that entailed. Of course, it would be naïve
simply to assume that the convenient applicability of this theory to Sinfonia Sacra
offers direct and immediately understandable reflections of Rubbra’s inner life,
but we must not ignore that possibility, especially when one considers it in relation
to Rubbra’s decision to formalize the design of his work with chorales which were
to him, as he believed they were to Bach, “periodic statements of an assured faith
that stood rock-like amid the shifting emotions of earthly life.”47
An adaptation of Hubert Parry’s words about Bach and the St. Matthew
Passion provides a fitting conclusion to our study of the composer and this work,
one which Rubbra may have appreciated in view of his veneration of the German,
for in Sinfonia Sacra Rubbra’s music is invariably human in its expression and,
of course, it is unecclesiastical. “It is intensely spiritual, deeply devout, nobly and
consistently serious, but with the largeness of temperamental nature that reaches
out beyond the limitations of any four walls whatever into communion with the
infinite.” The story of the Entombment, Resurrection, and Ascension “as told by
him would appeal not only to the Christian” but also in this post-modern and
increasingly secular age to those “who had but the slenderest knowledge of the
traditions of Christianity.” Rubbra “brought all that he had mastered into exercise
for the first time in this work. For however great many of his previous works had
been, they none of them range so widely and so richly as this; and at the same
time the unity of the whole work in style, spirit, and texture is almost incredible.”
Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra, Op. 140 (“The Resurrection”) “stands alone and
unique without any works which share a place with it, or anything which in its
peculiar qualities and scheme could follow it.”48
Chapter 9 Appendix: Description of Sinfonia Sacra Autographs
62599. RUBBRA COLLECTION. Vol. XIII. Ink vocal score, with pencil
amendments. Written on 12-stave manuscript paper, this is the autograph vocal
score used by the editor/compositor to prepare the printed vocal score. It is
completed in blue ink in an immaculate and elegant hand. Title page reads: “(In
Memoriam P.E.B. 1926–1969) / SINFONIA SACRA [to the right side on the same
line] Edmund Rubba / [next line to the side] Op. 140 / (The Resurrection) / for
Soprano (Mary Magdalene) / Contralto (Narrator) / Baritone (Jesus) / Choir and
Orchestra.” Rubbra paginated his pages consecutively, recto and verso, beginning
after the title page. These have been re-foliated on the recto sides only beginning
with fol. 2; thus p. 1 becomes fol. 2; p. 3 becomes fol. 3; p. 5, fol. 4; p. 7, fol. 5,
and so on to fol. 19. Folio 20 (on the verso of fol. 19) is a one-system paste-over
(see below). The recto-only foliation resumes with fol. 21 and continues to fol. 32.
Folio 2r is headed with the following: “(In Memoriam P.E.B. 1926–1969) / [to
the right side] Edmund Rubbra / [underneath this] Op. 140 / SINFONIA SACRA.
/ (Crucifixion – Resurrection – Ascension) / for / Soprano (Mary Magdalene),
Contralto (Narrator), Baritone (Jesus), / Chorus and Orchestra. / [left-hand side]
‘There was darkness over all the earth until the ninth hour’.”
Folio 15v is blank, as is fol. 25v.
There is a gap in the manuscript in that the “Conversation Piece” for orchestra
is not included. The bottom of fol. 25r introduces the “Conversation Piece” with
this text: “Here follows an orchestral movement, / “Conversation Piece” [the next
part has been crossed out] (i.e., The Road to Emmaus), preceded / by the Narrator
speaking the following words as soon as / the choir is seated: / And behold, two of
them went that same day to a village / called Emmaus … and they talked together
of all those / things that had happened. And it came to pass that while / they
communed together and reasoned, Jesus himself drew near, / & went with them.
But their eyes were holden that / they should not know him.” Folio 25v is unused.
At the top of fol. 26 (the last three measures of the “Conversation Piece” before
rehearsal 52) are the following words: “End of ‘Conversation Piece’.”
There is one paste-over at the bottom of fol. 19v (which the British Library has
foliated fol. 20): a one-system fragment (i.e. a three-stave system for narrator and
piano) of three measures for the Narrator (five measures before rehearsal letter 36:
“Jesus standing, and knew not that it was Jesus.”).
(The Latin texts for Regina caeli and Viri Galilaei feature English translations
beneath them. The printed score uses English throughout the work with the Latin
text appearing beneath the English at the pertinent places.)
62600. RUBBRA COLLECTION. Vol. XIV. Pencil full score. Folios iii + 47. 545
× 30mm. This full score is from the Lengnick Hire Library, as the inside front
cover attests. Written on 30-stave orchestral manuscript paper, this score, too,
illustrates immaculate handwriting in pencil. As in the above, Rubbra’s pagination
(recto/verso) has been foliated (on the recto only) by the British Library.
The “Conversation Piece” for orchestra, not included in the autograph vocal
score or the published vocal score, may be found at fols 33r–37r (one measure
after rehearsal letter 43 to 52). The bottom of fol. 32v, too, includes the text (as
above): “Narrator speaks as soon as / choir is seated] / ‘And behold, two of them
went that same day to a village / called Emmaus … and they talked together of all
those / things that had happened. And it came to pass that / while they communed
together and reasoned, Jesus / himself drew near, and went with them. But their
eyes were holden that they[.]” Slightly to the left and below this quotation is
the additional annotation: “N.B. Let brass chord at 43 / die away; then narrator
speaks. / CONVERSATION PIECE should start ‘cold’.” The last four words of
the quotation—“should not know him”—are placed below fol. 33r and connected
to fol. 32v by an ellipsis. The entire quotation is repeated at the top of fol. 33r with
the source (Luke 24. 13–16). For the “Conversation Piece” the key changes from
five sharps to no sharps or flats. It is marked Andantino (eighth-note = 112) and
is in þ¾ time. The preceding section is in ²¼, whereas the section that follows the
“Conversation Piece” is in ³¼. It is 74 measures in length.
On fol. 47r is a notation in brackets that reads: “Score completed / Good Friday
1972.” This full score appears not to be a facsimile. Confirmation, in person,
from British Library staff: the catalogue entry is to be interpreted to mean that
facsimile publications were made from these autograph scores. Therefore both are
holographs of Rubbra.
Rubbra does not indicate the instrumentation on the first leaf of the score;
however, it is discernible as 2 flutes, 2 oboes (oboe 2/cor anglais), 2 clarinets and
2 bassoon; 4 horns, 2 trumpets, 3 trombones and tuba; percussion (4 timpani,
wooden clappers, bass drum, glockenspiel, triangle, celesta, tubular bells, tam
tam); harp; divisi chorus; 3 soloists (baritone/Jesus; contralto/Narrator; soprano/
Mary Magdalene); and violins 1 and 2, violas, cellos, and basses. The orchestration
is carefully considered (e.g. indications of flageolet execution for the strings for
the chorale at rehearsal 41), with chamberesque touches and luxuriant tuttis, and
beautiful beyond compare.
The chorales: at rehearsal 10 (Tune by Johann Crüger, 17th century); at
rehearsal 41 (Tune by Melchior Teschner, 17th century); at rehearsal 64 (Tune by
Hans Leo Hassler, 1564–1612).
Notes
1 Ralph Scott Grover, The Music of Edmund Rubbra (Aldershot, 1993), pp. 170–71.
2 John Pickard, “Redeeming Rubbra: Generic Fusion in the Sinfonia Sacra,” Musical
Times (Winter, 2001): 34–8.
3 A selection follows: “The Younger English Composers: I—Edmund Duncan-
Rubbra,” Monthly Musical Record (February 1929): 39–40; Maurice Jacobson,
“The Music of Edmund Rubbra,” Monthly Musical Record (February 1935): 32–3;
Robin Hull, “A New Symphony,” Radio Times (April 1937); Arthur Hutchings,
“Edmund Rubbra’s Second Symphony,” Music & Letters (October 1939): 374–80;
Hutchings, “Rubbra’s Third Symphony,” Music Review, 2 (1941): 14–28; Wilfred
Mellers, “Rubbra’s Symphony No. 3,” Scrutiny, 9 (1940): 120–30; J.A. Westrup,
“Edmund Rubbra’s Fourth Symphony,” Musical Times (July, 1942): 204; Hugh
Ottaway, “Edmund Rubbra and His Fifty [sic] Symphony,” Halle (April 1950):
1–5; Hugh Ottaway, “Edmund Rubbra’s Sixth Symphony,” Halle (March 1955):
1–5; Elsie Payne, “Edmund Rubbra,” Music & Letters (October 1955): 343–56;
Harold Truscott, “The Music of Edmund Rubbra,” Listener (July 1964): 70; Hugh
Ottaway, “Rubbra’s Symphonies—I,” Musical Times (May 1971): 430–32; and
Hugh Ottaway, “Rubbra’s Symphonies—2,” Musical Times (June 1971): 549–52.
4 Lewis Foreman (ed.), Edmund Rubbra: Composer (Rickmansworth, 1977)
(includes H. Truscott, “Style and Orchestral Technique,” pp. 18–29; H. Ottaway,
“The Symphonies,” pp. 30–42; R. Stevenson, “Concerted Works,” pp. 43–51; H.
Truscott, “Chamber Music,” pp. 53–69; L. Foreman, “Recorder Music,” pp. 71–
5; E. Payne, “Non-Liturgical Choral Music,” pp. 77–85; M. Dawney, “Liturgical
Choral Music,” pp. 86–8; and S. Banfield, “Rubbra’s Songs,” 89–95).
5 Grover, The Music of Edmund Rubbra.
6 Leo Black, Edmund Rubbra: Symphonist (Woodbridge, 2008). Although Rubbra
is best known as a symphonist, he did not wish to be regarded solely in this way,
“for no composer writes symphonies exclusively. I like to think my other kinds of
work are just as important in their way—my choral works for example—for that
is a medium I very much enjoy working in.” See Murray Schafer (ed.), “Edmund
Rubbra,” in British Composers in Interview (London, 1963), p. 64.
7 Payne, “Non-Liturgical Choral Music”: “although it is Rubbra’s first choral
symphony, it does not claim to be an essentially new departure” (p. 83) and “In
a free, twentieth century sense, the work may rightly be called a symphony. For it
possesses the essential elements of the symphonic genre …” (p. 84) ; Grover, The
Music of Edmund Rubbra: “Thus, try as one may not to use it, ‘oratorio’ seems to
be the only appropriate word to describe what is being heard …” (p. 172).
8 Black, p. 181. Black, in some uncertainty, wrote as well: “The work eventually
turned into a choral symphony” (p. 177), “Unsurprisingly, it has proved not just
enigmatic but downright awkward for analysts” (p. 177), and “In the only recording
so far the sections last respectively nine and a half, eight and a half, twelve, and
fourteen minutes, which is no help, apart perhaps from the hint of a big finale, to
anyone determined to persist with a comparison between its proportions and those
within a traditional symphony” (p. 178).
9 Pickard. There are other citations that demonstrate this perplexity. Hugh Ottaway,
“The Symphonies,” p. 41, offers: “His characteristic germinal processes are certainly
evident …. However, the nature of the work … is more narrative than symphonic,
and the editor’s decision to assign the Sinfonia Sacra to the chapter on choral
music seems to me the right one.” In Die Musik in Geschichte und Gegenwart 14
(Jürgen Schaarwächter, “Edmund Rubbra”), Rubbra’s Symphony No. 9 (Sinfonia
Sacra, “The Resurrection”) is listed among the choral music (A. Vokalmusik; I.
Chorwerke); whereas in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians 21
(Ralph Scott Grover, “Edmund Rubbra”), it is listed among the orchestral music
(op. 140: Symphony no. 9 ‘Sinfonia Sacra’: see CHORAL).
10 Payne, “Non-Liturgical Choral Music,” p. 85.
11 Grover, The Music of Edmund Rubbra, pp. 170–71.
12 Pickard, p. 34.
13 These works are described variously: the Britten, a Missa pro defunctis; the Tippett,
an oratorio; the Vaughan Williams, Mahler, and Brian, symphonies; the Parry,
Sinfonia Sacra, motets, symphonic odes, and symphonic poems. Mendelssohn’s
work was originally titled Symphonie für Chor und Orchester but restyled later
as a Symphonie-Kantate. For more information on the last-named, see Felix
Mendelssohn, Symphony No. 2, Op. 52 Lobgesang (Hymn of Praise), ed. Roger
Fiske (Ernst Eulenburg, 1980) [Full Score]; Felix Mendelssohn, Hymn of Praise
(Lobgesang): A Sinfonia Cantata, Composed by F. Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, Op.
52, English Version by J. Alfred Novello (Novello, 1890) [Full Score]; and Carl
Dahlhaus, Nineteenth-Century Music [originally published in German as Die
Musik des 19. Jahrhunderts (Neues Handbuch der Musikwissenschaft, Volume
6), Akademische Verlagsgesellschaft Athenaion, Wiesbaden, 1980], translated
by J. Bradford Robinson (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989).
The “Symphony-Cantata to Words from Holy Scripture,” also known as the
Lobgesang (Hymn of Praise), was composed in Leipzig between 1838 and 1840
to celebrate the 400th anniversary of the invention of printing at the Gutenberg
Festival. Published as the Second Symphony in B@ major, Op. 52, it was, in fact,
the fourth mature symphony Mendelssohn had completed. After the celebrative
first performance of the Lobgesang on 25 June, where the choir and orchestra
numbered about 500, Mendelssohn conducted the work in Birmingham, England
on 23 September (his sixth appearance at the famous music festival). It appears that
the composer was somewhat dissatisfied with the music, and by 27 November he
had produced a revised version which was performed in Leipzig on 3 December
and at the Gloucester Festival of 1841. In his revisions of the work, Mendelssohn
improved the three orchestral movements, as he told Karl Klingemann in a letter of
18 November 1840 (the improvements were not specified); however, it is clear
that he halved the note lengths in the Allegro of the first movement and in Nos. 2
and 10; he wrote three new vocal sections, Nos. 3, 6, and 9; and he added the organ
part in Nos. 2, 7, 8, and 10. It was this final version which became so immensely
popular in the nineteenth century, despite the adverse criticism it received. (From
the Eulenburg score, ed. Roger Fiske.)
14 Jeremy Dibble, C. Hubert H. Parry: His Life and Music (Oxford, 1992), p. 397.
15 Ibid., pp. 362–3. Parry was a scholar of the seventeenth century, completing books
on the topic in general and on Johann Sebastian Bach.
16 See Stephen Banfield, Gerald Finzi: An English Composer (London, 1997),
p. 98 and Grover, The Music of Edmund Rubbra, p. 13: “Like Holst and Vaughan
Williams, Finzi and Rubbra ‘took our music to each other, and criticized it’, as
Rubbra testified. He went on: ‘until his death we remained very close friends. He
had a great influence on me’.”
17 Payne, “Non-Liturgical Choral Music,” p. 85, wrote: “it has an exceptionally strong
link with the Bach Passions which were its obvious inspiration”; Pickard, p. 34: “it
tells the story of Christ’s entombment, resurrection and ascension [and] therefore
begins where Bach’s Passions leave off. It also deliberately evokes them as models
…”; Robert Orledge, Musical Times (April 1973): 409: “… while best described
as a ‘Passion’, its place in Rubbra’s output is that of a Ninth Symphony inviting
comparison with Beethoven’s ‘Choral’, a far more innovatory work in every
respect,”; and Black, p. 178: “Payne stressed the closeness with which Rubbra
adhered to the model of Bach.”
18 See Schafer, p. 68.
19 Edmund Rubbra, “J.S. Bach, the Man of Faith,” Public Opinion (28 July 1950): 11;
reprinted as “J.S. Bach,” The Month, 190/ 999 (November 1950): 336–9.
20 Payne, “Non-Liturgical Choral Music,” p. 83; Pickard, p. 34.
21 Black, pp. 109–10.
22 Ibid., p. 6.
23 Schafer, pp. 64–72. Continuing, but becoming vaguer as he attempted to define
an act for which there may be no explanation, Rubbra said that music often
presented itself to him “in a visual way”; that is, he saw it “written down” before he
actually heard it. “These visual revelations are always brief—just a short germ—
and it is only later when I can get them down on paper that they reveal their true
musical significance and potentialities to me.” And, finally, “I believe music is in
the subconscious waiting for us to discover it; that the composer’s task is not the
creation of something new, but actually the discovery of something that already
exists. This is probably why I am so little concerned with form in the broad sense
of the word. My music seems to me to be complete within me from the moment
I begin; composing is the conscious act of revealing it.” The Schafer/Rubbra
interview raises questions that have not been answered by Rubbra scholars. In view
of Rubbra’s Sinfonia Sacra précis, how should we interpret his interview remarks?
Is it possible that he was describing two different stages of the compositional act?
Does “fixing a starting point” refer to pre-compositional preparation and “continue
steadily from the opening idea” the initial compositional act? Rubbra’s approach to
composition was derived from his teachers Holst and R.O. Morris. When describing
the pedagogical approach of the latter, he wrote that Morris believed there was no
such a thing as form apart from the musical content, that form was the result of the
musical idea. “Believing this, Mr Morris does not teach like the milk-poured-into-
the-jug school, which virtually says, ‘Here is sonata-form: now fill it up with your
ideas’: rather does he seek to lead the ideas to their natural if illogical conclusions
…”: Edmund Rubbra, “R.O. Morris as Teacher,” Monthly Musical Record
(1 September 1931): 265. About the former, Rubbra recalled: “he was fundamentally
more interested in letting the light of the intellect play upon the sensuous nature
of pure sound than in architectural design. As a formalist, Holst does not use the
conventions of development, but substitutes a highly idiomatic use of pattern, upon
which changes are rung and yet which do not move away from their particular
position in musical space”: Edmund Rubbra, Gustav Holst (Paris: The Lyrebird
Press, 1947), pp. 48–9.
24 Edmund Rubbra, “Edmund Rubbra writes about his ‘Sinfonia Sacra’,” The Listener
(15 February 1973): 220.
25 Ibid.
26 The Rubbra autographs are a part of the Additional Manuscripts Catalogue of the
British Library, 62587–62662, the contents of which follow: “Music manuscripts of
Charles Edmund Rubbra, C.B.E.; 1921–82, n.d. Mostly autograph. Supplementing
Add. 52590, 54386, 57535, 57536. See also Add. 64110–64119. Purchased from
the composer, 23 Dec. 1982. Paper. Seventy six volumes. Arranged as follows: A.
Orchestral Works: 62587–62612; B. Concertos, etc.: 62613–62628; C. Keyboard
Works and Chamber Music: 62629–62638; D. Theatre Music: 62639–62642; E.
Choral Works (Accompanied): 62643–62651; F. Choral Works (Unaccompanied):

62652–62656; G. Other vocal music: 62657–62661; and H. Sketches: 62662.” A
complete description of the Sinfonia Sacra autographs may be seen in the Chapter
9 Appendix.
27 Edmund Rubbra, “Edmund Rubbra Writes about his Eighth Symphony,” The
Listener (31 December 1970): 925.
28 Rubbra, “Edmund Rubbra writes about his ‘Sinfonia Sacra’,” p. 220. In this part
of the chapter, quotation marks will be used to indicate Rubbra’s words extracted
from his article, as well as the textual fragments from the Bible, German titles, and
English chorale words, all easily recognizable.
29 Ibid.
30 Ibid.
31 Black, p. 180.
32 Ibid., p. 181.
33 Edmund Rubbra, letter dated 14 January 1957, and published in Musical Opinion
(February): 123.
34 Edmund Rubbra, “The Later Vaughan Williams,” Music and Letters (January 1937):
8. The quotation is as follows: “it achieves perhaps a greater unity in its diversity
than does the previous ‘Pastoral Symphony’ in its tonal similarities. Superficially, a
unity is imposed by the presence of a Leitmotiv of four notes [f, e, g@, f] which runs
like a thread through the work; in reality, the unity is caused by the fusion at deep
levels of all the discoveries of this perpetually questing mind, so that a single span
of experience embraces the whole work. … What unsuspected possibilities seem to
be inherent in that simple melodic progression of a second plus a third. One could
almost say that this progression is the seed from which all Vaughan Williams’s
music has sprung.”
35 Rubbra, “Edmund Rubbra writes about his ‘Sinfonia Sacra’,” p. 220.
36 Ibid.
37 Pickard, pp. 37–8.
38 Elsie Payne, “Edmund Rubbra,” Music & Letters (October 1955): 345.
39 Rubbra, “Edmund Rubbra writes about his Sinfonia Sacra,” p. 220.
40 Ibid.
41 Pickard, p. 36.
42 Ibid., pp. 34–5.
43 Rubbra, “J.S. Bach,” p. 336.
44 Pickard, p. 37.
45 Payne, “Non-Liturgical Choral Music,” pp. 84–5.
46 Black, p. 133.
47 Rubbra, “J.S. Bach.”
48 Hubert Parry, Johann Sebastian Bach (Westport, CT, 1970), pp. 278–9.
Chapter 10
The Morning Watch, Op. 55 by
Edmund Rubbra
I would not enjoy being regarded solely as a symphonist, for no composer writes
symphonies exclusively. I like to think my other kinds of work are just as important
in their way—my choral works for example—for that is a medium I very much
enjoy working in. (Edmund Rubbra)1
Chronology, Conception, and Description
Rubbra’s standing as a composer of symphonies should not obfuscate the fact that
he left an astonishingly large corpus of choral music, Symphony No. 9 (Sinfonia
Sacra, Op. 140, subtitled “The Resurrection,” for soloists, chorus, and orchestra)
representing his most visionary compositional utterance and the spirituality—
intellectual, wide-ranging, consistent, and profound—that was the raison d’être for
much of his work. Indeed, Rubbra’s very first opus (unpublished) was on a religious
poem of R.G.S. Mead, The Secret Hymnody (1924), scored for full orchestra,
chorus, and organ. Mystical settings entered his oeuvre with the unaccompanied
Five Motets, Op. 37 (1934/premiered 1936), to texts of the metaphysical poets
Herrick, Vaughan, Donne, and Crashaw, and The Dark Night of the Soul, Op. 41,
no. 1 (1935/premiered 1943), to the words of St. John of the Cross, for contralto
soloist, chorus, and orchestra, the composition of which actually extended from
1936 to 1942—an important period that included the completion of the first four
symphonies and the consolidation of Rubbra’s symphonic technique.2
There followed The Morning Watch, Op. 55 (1941/premiered 1946), on the
mystical poem of Henry Vaughan, begun by the composer in 1941 at the end of
the fecund 1936–42 period, discontinued during his wartime service, and finished
in 1946. Thus, intended originally by the composer as his fifth symphony, it shares
some harmonic and melodic affinities with the preceding ones, especially the
fourth, while combining symphonic rhetoric with vocal polyphony. The composer
explained its conception and completion in the Music Review of 1949:
When, at the end of 1941, I was called up for war service, my fourth symphony
was already finished, although not fully scored, and projects had been made
for a fifth (choral) symphony. Preliminary sketches for this were actually noted
down in 1942, but army life proved not to be the ideal milieu for symphonic
thinking. The sketches were therefore put on one side until continuous thought
was again possible. … In 1946 I was free to take up the abandoned threads, but
my enthusiasm for a choral symphony had waned, and the sketches for it were
turned into an independent setting for chorus and orchestra of Henry Vaughan’s
Morning Watch.3
In fact, the work’s final form was the result of a commission from the Musicians’
Benevolent Fund for the first St. Cecilia’s Day Festival at the Royal Albert Hall,
where it was performed on 22 November 1946.4
According to Black, Rubbra attempted “to upstage his teacher Holst by setting
the ecstatically mystical Vaughan text,” noting that “unusually, he found Holst’s
setting inadequate” and going on to explain (incorrectly) that Rubbra’s pupil
Gary Higginson had remembered the composer “playing over Holst’s Morning
Watch [sic] with him.” In fact, Higginson wrote that Rubbra played over Holst’s
Evening Watch, while “shaking his head and murmuring ‘Oh dear—rather weak’,
or ‘Where is the movement?’ or ‘Not one of his best pieces’.”5 But it is more likely
that the meditative and spiritual Rubbra was attracted in the first instance to the
beautifully structured and balanced lyric that came from the poet’s own prayer life
and imaginative experience.
One of Vaughan’s finest poems, The Morning Watch (from Silex Scintillans) is
devotional in nature, its central inspiration in certain religious ideas that were for the
poet associated with night and daybreak. It is constructed in two parts: the first—“O
Joys! infinite sweetness!”—is charged with an intense exhilaration and excitement:
O Joys! infinite sweetness! with what flowers

And shoots of glory, my soul breaks and buds!
All the long hours
Of night and rest,
Through the still shrouds
Of sleep, and clouds,
This dew fell on my breast;
O how it bloods,
And spirits all my earth! Hark! In what rings,
And hymning circulations the quick world
Awakes, and sings!
The rising winds,
And falling springs,
Birds, beasts, all things
Adore Him in their kinds.
Thus all is hurl’d
In sacred hymns and order; the great chime
And symphony of Nature.
The second—“Prayer is the world in tune”—is both a recapitulation and a

preparation for the close:
The Morning Watch, Op. 55 by Edmund Rubbra 249
Prayer is
The world in tune,
A spirit-voice,
And vocal joys,
Whose echo is heaven’s bliss.
O let me climb
When I lie down! The pious soul by night
Is like a clouded star, whose beams, though said
To shed their light
Under some cloud,
Yet are above,
And shine and move
Beyond that misty shroud.
So in my bed,
That curtain’d grave, though sleep, like ashes, hide
My lamp and life, both shall in Thee abide.
The famous opening—“O Joys! infinite sweetness! with what flowers / And
shoots of glory, my soul breaks and buds!”—is extraordinarily arresting and
admirable: “admirable,” in the words of Pettet, “especially, for its bold metaphor
which compacts so much meaning and significance, and for the phrase ‘shoots
of glory’, which … like ‘chime And symphony of Nature’, possesses that
peculiar felicity that one finds so often in Shakespeare, the Authorized Version
of the Bible, and the early seventeenth-century writing generally—an immediate
conjunction of the concrete and abstract that, engaging senses and intellect
together, instantaneously irradiates the material and brings the abstract and ideal
down to earth.”6 A memorable close—“That curtain’d grave, though sleep, like
ashes, hide / My lamp and life, both shall in Thee abide”—recalls the remarkable
opening and balances with it “in two long, five-stress lines (appropriately varied
by a conclusive rhyme), in the similar density of metaphor, and, above all, in the
fact that it epitomizes Vaughan’s night sensations, the terror and the assurance, as
the opening epitomizes his spiritual exhilaration at daybreak.”7
After the opening and before the close is a delightful structural
correspondence—a description, in shorter lines, of night. “The second passage
recalls the first by its reference to ‘cloud’ and ‘shroud’… ; while the two sections
also match in that each is dominated by a single spiritual metaphor, ‘dew’ in one
instance and ‘star’ in the other,” Pettet writes. “Between these two passages there
is a vision of the awakened earth at daybreak in which all the harmonious activities
of Nature are represented first as hymns and then, in a conception that carries us
right through to the end of the poem, as prayer.”8
Rubbra observed the form of this two-part structure, but enclosed it within a
protracted orchestral prelude (in a ¼þ meter)—“Slow and spacious” is the indication
at the start—and a briefer postlude (in ½ ³ ). A characteristic germinal unit (a)—an
antecedent five-note group consisting of the melodic intervals of a descending
semitone and an ascending minor third—is introduced immediately; it imbues

much of the work through the process of imitation and fragmentation. Equally
pervasive is a consequent second unit (b): a six-note group that features a prominent
falling fifth. Initially these occur above a persistent and throbbing beat (Example
10.1). Dominating the second phase of the prelude is a third unit (c), featuring a
falling fifth and accented sixteenths, beginning on the anacrusis of the sixth beat
of measure 14. While the sixteenths add drive and urgency to the remainder of the
prelude, the third unit, too, is subjected to frequent and close imitation.
In point of fact, the germinal units are closely related inasmuch as they emanate
from the initial one; or, to paraphrase Rubbra, they stem from a single root idea
and their division into first, second, and third units is the result of the natural
proliferation of the compositional matter. Hence there is no principal theme. To
Grover, this process—“a kind of passing in review of different configurations
that employ basic intervallic material (minor thirds, seconds, fifths)”—captures
the mystical experience expressed in the poem. “A theme is finite in terms of a
beginning and an end; it repeats itself in much the same way as it is first stated and
definite tonalities are integral parts of its make-up. A mystical experience unfolds
from an uncertain beginning, and moves in an unpredictable manner towards an
unknown ending; it can never be repeated.”9 Be that as it may, there is no evidence
that Rubbra was being intentionally mystical; his idiom was simply apposite
for Vaughan’s poetry. The texture of the music is melodic and contrapuntal in
conception, whereas its harmonic discourse is continually fluctuating and indefinite
due to the inclusion of non-resolving dominant-seventh chords.
In the first part of the poetic setting (reached via a build-up to tutti orchestra),
the disposition of the choral parts (in a ³¼ meter)—initially based on germinal
unit a—is primarily prose-rhythmic (and fundamentally chordal with some divisi
passages), while the instrumental body maintains its own rhythmic identity:
that is, triplets derived from the melodic third of a. The exuberance of the text
is duplicated musically by increases to the tempo (from 40 to the quarter-note
through 72 and 96 to 112) and volume that lead to the climax, “Thus all is hurl’d
/ In sacred hymns and order; the great chime / And symphony of Nature,” as well
as by cross-rhythms made up of units a and b in a two-against-three pattern. The
present writer concurs with Grover that the primary cross-rhythm (intersecting
the triplets)—an accented, four-note, bell-like motif composed of quarters and
starting at rehearsal number 7 (at 8 the tubular bells are added)—adumbrates “the
great chime” of the lyric. One wonders if the bell-like motif is another musical
version of a childhood experience recounted by Rubbra in his autobiography.
It was a hot summer day, and my father and I went on a longish walk which
took us out of … town. … Suddenly, through the hazy heat, I heard distant bells,
the music of which seemed suspended in the still air. I was held motionless,
the scenery vanished, and I was aware only of downward-drifting sounds that
seemed isolated from everything else around me.
Example 10.1 The Morning Watch by Edmund Rubbra, motifs a and b (vocal
score; Alfred Lengnick, 1946), p. 1
Rubbra was certain that this experience, “held for so long in [his] inner
consciousness, gradually became … embedded in [his] musical thinking.”10 At
any rate, when the chorus commences fortissimo its “Thus all is hurl’d” line at
rehearsal number 9, the bell-like motif becomes a two-part ostinato in stretto. The
tessitura becomes extremely high as the chorus parts—to “Thus all is hurl’d / In
sacred hymns and order”—are set in consecutive fifths in a four-part organum
style that touches a B$ in the soprano and tenor.
The second part of the poetic setting is reached via an expressive orchestral
interlude (of twenty-one measures), after the chorus ceases, commencing molto
rallentando, though one measure later at rehearsal number 10 the tempo equals 88
to the quarter-note and the dynamic level is piano. The interlude features two new
elements: the first, rhythmic, made up of persistently repeating dotted quarters and
eighths, permeates the orchestral component for the rest of the work in a ½ ³ meter;
the second, melodic, consists of a descending scale pattern of five notes, another
germinal unit (d) that imbricates as it ends and begins again. In the opinion of
Black, the second part of the poem—“Prayer is the world in tune”—“unfolds with
the massive nobility and resonance of works in the Three Choirs Festival tradition
going back to Parry and Elgar; here is music fit to roll around the great cathedral
spaces of Gloucester, Hereford or Worcester.”11 Presumably, Black was responding
to the emergence of more imitative choral entries and less chordal harmony,
although, as Grover notes, the final lines of the lyric are set to unison and octave
passages. Beneath the choral parts, germinal unit d changes to include repetitions
of a, and in the quiescent postlude, b reappears briefly. One can see, too, tempo
alterations that correspond with the first part of the poem: initially, the quarter-note
equals 88, then 96, 132, 96 again, thereafter molto meno mosso, and, lastly, adagio.
Compositional Idiom and Sketchbook
It may be impossible to know how important Vaughan was to the widely read
Rubbra, because the poet’s works were only one among the religious and
philosophical section of the composer’s library, which emphasized “the writings
of St. Teresa of Avila, St. John of the Cross, [and] Teilhard de Chardin …, [as well
as] books that [dealt] philosophically with the verse of the English metaphysical
poets and … the anthologies of their poetry.”12 However, when discussing his
compositional idiom in 1966, Rubbra used Vaughan and poetry to clarify his
meaning. He stated that his search had always been “‘to find new relationships
between harmonies and the combination of melodies that will give an added luster
to old concepts.’ Here he used an analogy with the poet who expresses a personal
vision by placing ‘quite ordinary words in an unusual relationship’—he quoted
from Henry Vaughan—and suggested that ‘the same, almost chemical change is
brought about when common chords are placed in uncommon contexts’.”13
Rubbra could have been thinking of any number of lines from The Morning
Watch—“my soul breaks and buds!,” “This dew fell on my breast,” “bloods … my
earth,” “hymning circulations the quick world / Awakes, and sings!,” “O let me
climb / When I lie down!”—lines that place “quite ordinary words in an unusual
relationship” to refer symbolically to spiritual revival or immortality, the flow of
divine grace, God’s cultivation of the world, the renewal of life and the worship
of God by nature, and the resource of evening prayer (in that order), as well as
to represent the direct, concrete, simple, usually monosyllabic kind of diction,
together with a touch of the abstract and polysyllabic (for example, “hymning
circulations”), used by Vaughan.
Rubbra’s setting acknowledges nothing of the former—he attempted no
illumination of the richness of meaning behind the words in Vaughan’s poem—but,
instead, focuses exclusively on the vegetal images (“flowers,” “shoots,” “breaks,”
“buds”) and the intense exhilaration and excitement of the famous opening
lines. That this was Rubbra’s intention from the very beginning is revealed in
his sketchbook (Add. MS. 62662), oblong in format and contained in an aging
black cloth binding, where on fol. 33v he indicated that the work would consist
of two movements with quotations taken from Jerusalem I (p. 447) by Blake—
“The vegetative Universe opens like a flower from the Earth’s centre / In which is
Eternity”—and The Morning Watch by Vaughan—“O Joyes! Infinite Sweetnesse!
With what flowers, / And shoots of glory, my soul breaks, and buds!”14
The latter—Vaughan’s poetic language, with its skillful enjambment between
long and short lines, which are crossed with, and subordinate to, fluent speech
rhythms and constructions, aiding the sustained flow of the lyric—could be
compared to Rubbra’s compositional idiom, with its essentially vocal lyricism,
plastic rhythm and tonality, transitions rather than modulations, and “insistence
on continuity and melodic generation.”15 Certainly, Vaughan’s verbal construction
of “breaking and budding” is matched by Rubbra’s germinal unit—the continuous
growth of a melodic subject into fresh organisms, sometimes by extension,
sometimes by dissection into its component parts—which appears first on fol. 34r
of the sketchbook (Figure 10.1). Also visible there are the non-resolving dominant
seventh chords (and diatonic concords) that satisfy Rubbra’s description of
“common chords placed in uncommon contexts”: they have all of their “traditional
warmth and full-bloodedness but none of [their] conventional penultimate
implications” and “like [Rubbra’s] tonal and rhythmic sense they are clear and
lucid but continually flowing.”16
That the seventh chords are utilized in a manner not unlike that of the Fourth
Symphony suggests a continuity of thought that is striking, all the more so because
of the propinquity of the sketches: those of the Fourth Symphony are contiguous
with The Morning Watch. Both are written on 6-stave manuscript paper in pencil:
the former from fol. 4v to fol. 33r; the latter, divided consistently into two systems
(treble/treble/bass clefs), from fol. 34r to fol. 41v.17 Regarding The Morning Watch
specifically: the calligraphy is not as beautiful as that of Rubbra’s autograph vocal
scores and full scores but it is still rather neat, though there are random sketches of a
different quality—rough, inelegant, and incomplete—on fols 42r, 42v, 43v, 44r, and
45v. Clearly, this is a short score, akin to a continuity draft, used to enter almost fully
realized compositional ideas, including character markings and instrumentation.
What may not be seen in the sketch are the choral parts. Folios 34r–37v (labeled
by Rubbra, recto/verso, as pp. 1–8) consist of the orchestra alone (to one measure
before rehearsal 5 in the vocal score, fol. 37v / p. 8 in the manuscript), at which point
the choral entrance (“O Joys! infinite sweetness”) and the subsequent music for the
chorus have not been included (Figure 10.2); rather, the orchestral part continues
Figure 10.1 The Morning Watch, germinal unit, GB-Lbl Add. MS. 62662, fol. 34r
Figure 10.2 The Morning Watch, sketch without initial choral entrance, GB-Lbl Add. MS. 62662, fol. 37v
seamlessly from there (rehearsal 10, fol. 37v / p. 8) by a diminution of note values
(that is, two measures of ¼
þ become one measure of ½ ³ ) to cease five measures before
the end (at rehearsal 17). Similarly, at rehearsal 12 (fol. 39v / p. 10, measure 3),
the next choral parts do not appear (that is, “Prayer is / The world in tune”); the
orchestra continues alone. But, unlike the previous example, where additional or
new choral music had to be added to a subsequent score (possibly 62645 A), here
Rubbra would create his choral parts out of the existing orchestral music.
Were it not for Rubbra’s words to Mellers in 1943—“Rubbra tells me that the
symphony will probably be choral, with words by Henry Vaughan”18—and his own
published account of 1949, one might be inclined to speculate that what became
The Morning Watch started out as a purely orchestral work, if not a non-vocal fifth
symphony then a programmatic, two-movement essay. Yet the omission of the
choral parts could be the first instance of Rubbra’s future “tendency to separate
vocal and instrumental planes” that became “a more definite aspect of [his] writing
as time [went] by, and often this … meant a complete separation of structural
styles.”19 Nonetheless, in The Morning Watch, Rubbra was marvelously successful
in his search “to find new relationships between harmonies and the combination of
melodies that … [gave] an added lustre to old concepts.”20
Oblique Influences: Holst and Bax
To return to a question mooted earlier, Black speculated that Rubbra wanted to

better his teacher, Holst, by setting Vaughan’s The Morning Watch, although Holst
did not compose a work on that poem but, rather, The Evening Watch (subtitled “A
Dialogue of the Body and Soul” and also from Silex Scintillans). Holst described
his modest part-song of 51 measures for eight-part unaccompanied chorus as a
motet, “but its atmospheric progressions of extended fourth-chords owe nothing to
the contrapuntal techniques of earlier centuries.”21 Written and published in 1925,
then premiered in the same year at the Three Choirs Festival held in Gloucester
Cathedral, with the composer conducting, no one at the time seemed to like its
austere and transcendental atmosphere, while a later generation recognized it “as
a characteristic example of Holst’s mature art, more in keeping with the mood
of the later twentieth century than that of the 1920s.”22 One can understand why
Rubbra was drawn to Holst’s work—he was attracted to Vaughan and enflamed by
his mystical poetry—and why he criticized it—he disliked the static homophony
of the setting, which is unrelieved except for the imitative writing commencing
at measure 34 (“who drew this circle even / He fills it”). However, beyond the
designation of motet, Rubbra’s setting of Vaughan’s poetry has nothing in common
with Holst’s. Yet there may be something to Black’s assertion after all, for Rubbra’s
decision to use the non-resolving dominant seventh chords in his Fourth Symphony,
a prominent feature of his choral setting, was a reaction to a Holstian preference:
Now Holst, when I was studying with him, had particular grievances against
certain chords, and he had one against the dominant seventh. I don’t remember
what he called it, but he said, ‘don’t use the dominant seventh, ever.’ So, I said
to myself, ‘well, I will use it in this Fourth Symphony’; and I used it in its third
inversion, and you will find it there very, very frequently. It was a great success.23
Compositional stimulus could have come from another source—Arnold Bax,

even though he was very different from Rubbra in his origins, circumstances, and
artistic predilections. Shaped by the fin-de-siècle artistic milieu, Bax (1883–1953)
was a late Romantic, the product of a privileged background (his father was a
barrister-at-law) and wealthy. Tutored at home, primarily, by an exhibitioner from
Exeter College, Oxford, thereafter he attended the Royal Academy of Music.
Brilliant but shy, Bax achieved renown for his remarkable symphonic essays,
which for a time were more popular than those by Vaughan Williams, opulently
harmonized and orchestrated, highly chromatic, rhapsodic in character and imbued
with a Celtic spirit. To be sure, Bax was the antithesis of Rubbra.
Nevertheless, Bax set The Morning Watch by Vaughan for the Three Choirs
Festival of 1935. Perhaps Rubbra was present for the performance of the work. If
not, he could have learned about it from Finzi, who attended the Worcester Festival
to hear it, Dyson’s Nebuchadnezzar, and Vaughan Williams’s Sancta Civitas,24 or
from Vaughan Williams himself, who was there, too, and sat with Bax and Harriet
Cohen. The latter recorded in her memoirs that:
VW had a quietening effect on our nervous friend, I noticed, as I sat pinned

between them waiting to hear The Morning Watch. The setting of the sublime
words “Prayer is the world in tune” was as Vaughan Williams said then “of
ineffable beauty”. We found the “working out” fine chorally, but a little “too
exciting, too Wagnerian” perhaps for the Cathedral environment and, to my
mind, certainly under-rehearsed and rather ragged orchestrally, in performance:
the choir was magnificent.25
Bax opened his setting for SATB chorus and orchestra with a prolix
instrumental introduction, consisting of a quietly reflective brass chorale (poco
lento, tranquillo)—very effective and memorable when it returns at 36/4 and at one
measure before 42—and an extraverted muscular march (allegro risoluto, initially,
at measure 15)—that he subtitled “Sunrise” in response to the implications of the
text.26 The former features a convex motif (x) of mostly half-notes, while the latter
is predicated on a jaunty subject (y) animated by a triplet rhythm. The composer’s
harmony and scoring are at their most refulgent during this long prologue (125
measures), which features a sequence of dizzying tempo shifts—poco più sostenuto
(at measure 26), più largamente maestoso (measure 42), poco più mosso (measure
48), vivace (measure 56), più lento (measure 62), largamente (measure 106), and,
again, vivace (measure 114); these, in fact, represent the demarcated sections of
the palpable design by Bax, which unfolds paragraph by paragraph rather than
continuously from the beginning like Rubbra’s setting. It is not until measure 125
that the chorus enters with the opening line of Vaughan’s poem, “O Joys! infinite
sweetness!,” after which is seen a Holst-like descending marching bass motif
(13/8) that recurs as an ascending line (with a few chromatic changes) beginning
at 27/2. The choral writing is very dense—in many places it is SATB divisi—
and the work exhibits some heavily scored passages: at “The rising winds, / And
falling springs” (20 passim) and “Thus all is hurl’d” (at 22 passim). An interlude
of 33 measures in duration precedes the second part of the poem, “Prayer is / The
world in tune” (see 26/6). However, briefer interludes occur as Bax dissects and
repeats fragments of the lyric. For example, the line “Prayer is the world in tune, /
A spirit voice, / And vocal joys / Whose echo is heaven’s bliss” is artfully pruned
and, then, restated by the sopranos alone (at 31/6) after an arresting interlude;
and further interludes punctuate the score before the line “So in my bed” (from
35 to 37/6) and at the conclusion of the lyric, “in Thee abide” (at 41/10), which
ushers in the climax of the score for orchestra alone, before the piece ends with an
extended melismatic Amen. Without doubt, Bax’s setting reflects his command of
formidable technical resource and an enviable grammatical fluency but, obviously,
his idiomatic framework is quite different from Rubbra’s.
A Powerful and Gripping Work
In 1981, Calum MacDonald reviewed Rubbra’s setting for the Radio 3 series
celebrating the composer’s eightieth anniversary. We know that his evaluation—
“the whole structure … seems … to be conceived in a single breath, and set down
in a single surge of creative inspiration”—was incorrect; for the composition of the
work spanned the years 1941–46, with a hiatus occurring during Rubbra’s wartime
service, and at first did not include the choral parts, as the sketch reveals—these
were added subsequently. Nevertheless, the reviewer was right when he wrote that
“it is a powerful, gripping work that should be heard more often.”27 His evaluation
aptly described the premiere, given thirty-five years earlier, which utilized two
full choirs and two full orchestras—powerful and gripping indeed! Sir Adrian
Boult, who in Rubbra’s words “marshalled them wonderfully,”28 wrote later of
the composer: “[Rubbra’s] music has so deeply impressed all sections of people
who have an interest in any of the many branches of his work. He is a composer
who has never made any effort to popularize anything he has done, but he goes on
creating masterpieces, which I am convinced will survive their composer and most
of those who are his contemporaries.”29 Boult’s view remains valid despite a more
recent summary by Peter Evans—“the indisputable originality of his methods
may never overcome the sobriety of his materials”30—especially when applied
to Rubbra’s output of texted music, such as his choral-orchestral utterances and
religious works. In the last analysis, Rubbra’s music is consistent, forceful, and
sincere, and it has magnificent cumulative power. His is an undeniably impressive
compositional achievement.
Notes
1 Murray Schafer, “Edmund Rubbra,” in Murray Schafer (ed.), British Composers in

Interview (London, 1963), p. 64.
2 Elsie Payne, “Non-Liturgical Choral Music,” in Lewis Foreman (ed.), Edmund
Rubbra: Composer (Rickmansworth, 1977), p. 78.
3 Edmund Rubbra, preface to his analysis of the Fifth Symphony: “Symphony No. 5
in B flat, Op. 63,” Music Review, 10/1 (February 1949): 27–8.
4 Rubbra, The Morning Watch, vocal score published by Alfred Lengnick, 1946.
5 See Leo Black, Edmund Rubbra: Symphonist (Woodbridge, 2008), p. 84 and Gary
Higginson, “Edmund Rubbra: Teacher & Guide—As I Knew Him,” April 1998,
www.musicweb-international.com/classrev/2000/mar00/Higginson.htm.
6 E.C. Pettet, Of Paradise and Light: A Study of Vaughan’s Silex Scintillans
(Cambridge, 1960), pp. 125–6.
7 Ibid., p. 126.
8 Ibid.
9 Ralph Scott Grover, The Music of Edmund Rubbra (Aldershot, 1993), pp. 398–9.
10 Ibid., pp. 3–4.
11 Black, p. 85.
12 Grover, pp. 589–90.
13 Rubbra, in the series “Composer’s Portrait” (Music Programme, 2 March 1966),
taken from Hugh Ottaway, “Edmund Rubbra and his Recent Works,” Musical
Times (1966): 765.
14 Add. MS. 62662. Sketchbook; n.d. Includes sketches for “The Gifts,” Op. 151,
“Symphony no. 4,” Op. 53, and “The Morning Watch,” Op. 55. Folios 45. 150
× 237mm. The British Library has foliated the manuscript, recto only, fols 1–44.
Rubbra identifies the source of the lines by Blake but not by Vaughan. There are
three complete autographs deposited in the British Library: 62645 A (fols 1–13v).
Written on 28-stave orchestral manuscript paper, this is the pencil full score with
additional annotations in green crayon (rehearsal letters from 10, fol. 8v passim),
black ink (tempo indications from rehearsal letter 10, fol. 8v) and red pencil (a
tempo indication [?quarter-note = 80] one bar after rehearsal letter 15, fol. 12r).
The calligraphy is elegant and impeccable. The outside front cover (in black ink)
reads: “[top right hand corner] Wed 23 May 56 / The Morning Watch / Edmund
Rubbra / Op. 55 / Full Score.” At the bottom of the folio is a paste-on that reads:
“Alfred Lengnick & Co., Ltd. / Purley Oaks Studios / 421a Brighton Road – South
Croydon – Surrey – CR2 6YR / Telephone: 01 – 660 7646[.]” The orchestration
is as follows: 2 flutes, 2 oboes, 2 clarinets in A, 2 bassoon, 4 horns, 2 trumpets,
2 tenor trombone, bass trombone, tuba, timpani, tubular bells, SATB, violin 1
and 2, viola, cello, bass. 62645 A (fols 14–22v). Written on 18-stave manuscript
paper (28-stave paper cut in two?). This is the ink vocal score. As with the above,
the music begins on fol. 2. The penmanship is beautiful. The outside cover (fol.
1) reads: “The Morning Watch / Op. 55 / Motet for Chorus & Orchestra / Words
by Henry Vaughan (1621–1695) Edmund Rubbra. (1946).” Rehearsal letters are
marked in blue crayon. This is the manuscript used by the editor or compositor to
prepare the printed score, as the pencil markings clearly illustrate. 62645 B (fols
iv + 18). Written on 24-stave manuscript paper, this is the autograph ink full score
once available from the Lengnick Hire Library as a performance score. Rubbra
paginated his work, verso/recto, from 1 to 31; the British Library has re-foliated
it on the versos only, 1–18, so page 1 is fol. 3; page 3 is fol. 4; page 5, fol. 5; page
7, fol. 6, and so forth. Rubbra used black ink. But green pencil has been used for
rehearsal numbers (circled), though one instance of red crayon may be seen on p. 8/
fol. 6v; and graphite annotations are found throughout—for example, bowings for
the strings—(though many of the conductor’s indications have been subjected to
erasure).
15 W.H. Mellers, “Rubbra and the Dominant Seventh: Notes on an English Symphony,”
Music Review (1943): 145–56 (specifically p. 147).
16 Ibid., p. 147.
17 Sketches of “The Gifts” appear on fols 1r–3r.
18 Mellers, p. 156. Rubbra’s recollection in 1980 (at the age of 79) was ambiguous: “As
you can imagine, life in a camp … wasn’t conducive to continuous composition.
But there were various activities, and I took full advantage of them. I started what
I thought might be the Fifth Symphony, but when I received a commission much
later on—some years after the war—from the Musicians’ Benevolent Fund for their
annual concerts in the Albert Hall (I received a commission for a choral work with
orchestra), I turned this idea, these sketches that I thought were going to be the Fifth
Symphony, into a work called The Morning Watch to words by Henry Vaughan,
whose work I was very fond of.” See Grover, p. 19. There exist, as well, two letters
to E. Chapman (MS. MUS. 61886, fols 103 and 105) of Boosey that mention the
work. In the first, of 20 August 1942 (fol. 103), Rubbra writes: “I realize how
difficult it is to get works of the nature of these four symphonies accepted into the
current repertoire; but I am not impatient, as I know they will be assessed one day
and given their proper place in music. But I admit it’s a bit hard on my publishers
that I should so consistently think in terms of the Symphony! (I will whisper that
No. 5 has started—a Choral Symphony).” In the second, of 10 August 1944 (fol.
105), he says: “You want to know about my works: but there’s nothing very much
to tell. I’m doing a motet, commissioned by St. Matthews Church, Northampton
(the same who commissioned Britten’s ‘Cantata’)—words by Henry Vaughan
[The Revival]. Also on the stocks is a choral and orchestral setting of Vaughan’s
‘Morning Watch’.”
19 Payne, p. 80.
20 Rubbra, quoted in Ottaway, p. 765.
21 Michael Short, Gustav Holst: The Man and His Music (Oxford, 1990), p. 226.
22 Ibid., p. 236.
23 Rubbra quoted in Grover, p. 87.
24 “We’re going to the Worcester Festival for the Bax (the better Bax, I think), new
Dyson, and ‘Sancta Civitas’ [Vaughan Williams]—Wednesday and Thursday.”
Finzi (letter of 30 August 1935) in Howard Ferguson and Michael Hurd (eds.),
Letters of Gerald Finzi and Howard Ferguson (Woodbridge, 2001), p. 106.
25 Quoted in Lewis Foreman, Bax: A Composer and His Times (Woodbridge, 2007),
p. 335.
26 Bax, The Morning Watch, piano-vocal score, published by Chappell & Co.,
1943. The manuscript full score is archived with the publisher (MS 256). The
instrumentation includes the following: 3(1) 2+1 3+1 2+1, 4331, timp., 3 perc.
(b.d., t.d., s.d., cym., gong, tri., gl.) hp., str. The autograph consists of 33 folios; 66
pages (pages 1 and 2 have the top corner missing; page 3 has the number penciled
in; the rest are numbered in ink by Bax). Augener 30-stave paper; loose in brown
wrappers. For more information, see Graham Parlett, A Catalogue of the Works of
Sir Arnold Bax (Oxford, 1999), p. 214.
27 Calum MacDonald, The Listener (10 December 1981): 731; quoted in Grover,
p. 399.
28 Rubbra, quoted in Grover, p. 19.
29 Adrian Boult, “Foreword” to Foreman (ed.), Edmund Rubbra, p. 7. Rubbra
responded with a letter to Sir Adrian on 2 March 1978 (see MSS. Mus. 60499, fol.
80): “Dear Adrian: I’m sure that you have now received the splendidly-produced
Triad Press book on my music, and I would like to thank you for your most generous
tribute to my work in your Foreword. It was most kind of you, and I appreciated it
enormously. I do hope you are keeping well and active. My warm greetings to you
both[.] Yours ever—Edmund[.]”
30 Peter Evans, “Instrumental Music I” in Stephen Banfield (ed.), The Twentieth
Century, Blackwell History of Music in Britain, vol. 6 (Oxford, 1995), p. 229.
Chapter 11
“A home of unfading splendour”: Quo Vadis
by George Dyson (1883–1964)
a rare beauty … perfect exposition in poetry and music of a deep spiritual longing
for human harmony with the divine. (The Musical Times)1
Music is alive only when some performer interprets it and some listener responds to
it. If it is too alien in spirit to evoke and survive that test, its chances of preservation
are small, and it will never come to life unless a later and different age happens to
find it unexpectedly preserved, and discovers in it a congenial message. The story
of our time is therefore the story of what appeals to our time. (George Dyson)2
Dyson and his Works: Biography and Reception History
Throughout his life, George Dyson (1883–1964) enjoyed an unusually ardent bond
with the Royal College of Music (RCM). Upon Hugh Allen’s retirement (1937),
he became the first alumnus of the institution to assume its chief administrative
office, a position he held for fifteen years (1938–52). During his tenure, Dyson led
the College to a new level of professional and international exposure by changing
“the emphasis from all-round musicianship and general culture to a more intense
specialization for professional proficiency,” even though, in view of his pedigree,
many thought that he would simply continue the traditional policies.3 In any case,
the appointment of Dyson had been approved by Vaughan Williams, the former
being no more conformist than the latter and, in fact, very much like him and
Parry in other aspects: for example, they shared a profound feeling for tradition,
for the English language and literature, and a similar approach to spirituality.4
Earlier (from 1921) and for some years, Dyson taught composition and theoretical
subjects at the RCM, emulating the examples of Parry, who viewed art in the
widest context of humanity,5 and Stanford, who believed that craftsmanship is the
command of an appropriate technique.6 Of course, Dyson’s initial point of contact
with the College was as a student (1900–1904), his “most powerful and exacting
teacher” being Stanford.7
Dyson’s astonishing ascendancy to professional eminence is comparable
to that of Rubbra in that he, too, originated at the other end of the social scale.
Born in Halifax, he was the eldest of the three children of John William Dyson,
a blacksmith, and his wife, Alice Greenwood, a weaver. In spite of financial
constraints, they contrived to introduce their son to music, through the media of
the piano, organ, choral ensemble, or orchestra, and the experience was, in his
words, “exact and intense.” “I devoured all the piano music I could get hold of, I
learnt the classical overtures and symphonies as piano duets, and I played through
all the Beethoven violin sonatas with a young friend, more than once, at a sitting.
I doubt if there is today any adequate substitute for this digging out of music with
one’s own hands.”8 Dyson had been given “mild lessons” on the cottage piano
owned by his parents, “and at five years old [he] could read and play easy pieces.
At seven [he] was writing little tunes of [his] own.”9 So precocious was Dyson
that he “played services on the organ from the age of thirteen, and at sixteen [he]
became a Fellow of the Royal College of Organists and an open scholar at the
Royal College of Music” (in organ and composition).10
Naturally, the latter award was Dyson’s carte blanche into an invigorating
ambience of truly brilliant faculty and students. The cross-fertilization of ideas
and knowledge occurred in their company at the College or at orchestral concerts,
the Covent Garden gallery, and London rehearsals for provincial festivals. Dyson
“wrote student compositions which were considered promising,” and late in life
remembered “some of the music” essayed by his classmates.11 In addition to his
tuition with Stanford and the general curriculum digested by all of the students,
Dyson received organ lessons under the inspiring guidance and friendship of
Walford Davies, along with fellow pupils William Harris, the incomparable
organist and composer of imperishable sacred music such as “Faire is the Heaven,”
and Leopold Stokowski, the magisterial conductor of the Philadelphia Orchestra,
“the finest modern [ensemble] in the world.” In 1958, Dyson remembered the
“unforgettable occasions” with them when considering the primary thrust of his
career, for, although Harris and Stokowski had begun with similar aspirations,
their paths had diverged. Dyson had “become neither a leader in church circles nor
a distinguished organist, like Harris,” nor had he “carried out a totally different
career like Stokowski.” His field “had been musical education,” which was not
“uncommon among organists of the time” in his considered opinion. “Few young
men can guess what is in store for them. We three, in those far-off days, looked for
a busy church or, if we were fortunate, perhaps a cathedral, as our goal. … My own
fate, when I was looking for work, was to be sent as organist and music-master to
a school, and I directed the music of one school after another, until finally I found
myself head of the Royal College of Music.”12
Indeed, musical education was the major platform of Dyson’s professional life
for over thirty years (1908–14/1921–52), interrupted only by the years of upheaval
caused by World War One. It was Parry who started him on his way, recommending
him for the position of Director of Music at the Royal Naval College, Osborne (1908–
11). In 1911 he went to Marlborough and then to Rugby (1914), where he missed
teaching Bliss by only a few years but joined him as a staff member at the RCM
(1921)—after serving in the armed forces (1914–16/1918–20), marrying (Mildred
Lucy Atkey, 1917), and taking the Oxford D.Mus. (1919). There, undoubtedly, he
encountered Rubbra and learned of Finzi through R.O. Morris, one of his esteemed
“A home of unfading splendour”: Quo Vadis by George Dyson 265
colleagues, while the presence of Vaughan Williams was everywhere pervasive.

During the year that he commenced his employment at the RCM, Dyson was also
appointed as Director of Music at Wellington College. From there, he moved to
Winchester (1924), where the diversity of his pursuits and capabilities merged
in efficacious and felicitous occupation. Indeed, it was at Winchester that Dyson
established an enduring profile—in the great tradition of Parry and Stanford—as an
administrator, pedagogue, lecturer, author, and composer.
The bulk of Dyson’s output consisted of vocal works, the most important of
which were written as festival commissions during the years of his association
with Winchester (1924–37/1952–64) and London (1937–52). He is remembered
principally as the composer of The Canterbury Pilgrims (Winchester, 1930), an
illustration of Chaucer’s characters on a libretto prepared by Dyson and his wife
(and dedicated to her) for soprano, tenor, and bass soloists, chorus, and orchestra.
It was preceded by In Honour of the City (Winchester, 1928), a fantasia on a poem
by William Dunbar, for chorus and orchestra, and followed by St. Paul’s Voyage
to Melita (Hereford, 1933), a symphonic poem with obbligato chorus to Acts 27,
for tenor solo, chorus, and orchestra; The Blacksmiths (Leeds, 1934), a dramatic
cantata on a medieval alliterative poem in Middle English, modernized by Dyson’s
wife, for chorus, piano, and orchestra; and Nebuchadnezzar (Worcester, 1935),
an oratorio in the style of Parry’s Job (though Stanford’s 1885 The Three Holy
Children was a source also) on words from Daniel 3 and the Song of the Three
Holy Children from the Apocrypha, for tenor and bass soloists, chorus, organ, and
orchestra. During his leadership of the RCM, the choral object of his attention
was his magnum opus, Quo Vadis (1937–48), the longest of his works: Part I was
intended for the Three Choirs Festival at Hereford (1939) but, because of World
War Two, received a later presentation at London (1945), then Hereford (1946)
and Gloucester (1947), whereas the work in toto (Parts I and II) was heard at
Hereford (in 1949). Dyson’s retirement to Winchester ushered in a final period of
compositional efflorescence during which he produced Sweet Thames, Run Softly
(Winchester, 1955), a song on a text by Spenser for baritone solo, chorus, and
orchestra; Agincourt (Petersfield, 1956), a dramatic cantata utilizing sequential
lines from Shakespeare’s Henry V, for chorus and orchestra; and Hierusalem
(London, 1956), a hymn on a poem of sixteenth-century origin derived from St.
Augustine, for soprano solo, chorus, string quartet, strings, harp, and organ.13
Dyson’s music generated a core of devotees, though it never appealed to a
wide audience because the majority of his works were produced during an age
of experimentation after World War One when other creative modalities were in
force. That he was cognizant of them and the changing standards under which
all artists worked is evident from his book The New Music (1924), a landmark
in the evolution of musical criticism, and the sentence above from his chapter
contribution to Music by Henry Hadow (revised 1947). Yet his achievements
in composition are significant when viewed vis-à-vis his important educational
activities. For his services to music, Dyson received many academic honors and
distinctions. He became a fellow of the RCM (1929), an honorary member of the
Royal Academy of Music (1937), and a fellow of the Royal School of Church
Music (1963). Aberdeen and Leeds conferred honorary doctorates (in 1942 and
1956). He was granted the Freedom of the Worshipful Company of Musicians
(1944), and the mayor and corporation of Winchester made him a freeman of the
city (1963). Knighted in 1941 by King George VI, whom he had taught at the
Royal Naval College, he was created KCVO in 1953.
A Précis of Quo Vadis: A Cycle of Poems
Quo Vadis (literally “whither goest thou?”) is one of the visionary twentieth-century
choral-orchestral works conceived or completed by 1939 but not performed for a
decade or more. The more well-known examples are Intimations of Immortality
by Gerald Finzi and Hymnus Paradisi by Herbert Howells, the latter completed
in 1938 but kept secret and unseen until its performance (in 1950 at Gloucester)
with the former, which also was composed intermittently over a period of years.14
Essentially a sinfonia sacra—of nine discrete movements in two parts—exploiting
the anthology principle, Quo Vadis utilizes texts from a rich variety of sources:
namely William Wordsworth, Sir Walter Raleigh, Thomas Campion, Thomas
Heywood, and the Sarum Psalter; Barnaby Barnes, Robert Herrick, Thomas
Lynch, and Thomas Sternhold; Isaac Williams, John Keble, Henry Vaughan, and
George Herbert; John Henry Newman, William Blake, Percy Bysshe Shelley,
and the Salisbury Diurnal.15 In so doing, it brings together verses from different
poets intimately connected in thought or imagery or both, “the theme of which is
man’s earthly pilgrimage, and in the second part, which was completed ten years
after the first, his destiny in ‘the white radiance of eternity’,” as encapsulated by
Howes in 1966—and appropriated by Palmer in 1984 (“The theme is that of man’s
earthly pilgrimage, his spiritual odyssey and its consummation in Shelley’s ‘white
radiance of Eternity’”)—but, more precisely, since the work concludes with words
from the Salisbury Diurnal, “a home of unfading splendour.”16
According to Foreman and Palmer, Dyson found some of the poems in The Spirit
of Man by Robert Bridges,17 published initially in 1916 but reissued at intervals
from 1916 to 1973.18 Bridges’s compilation is a rather strange and unusual book,
for there are no titles or names of authors inserted in the text, because, as Bridges
explained, “they would distract the attention and lead away the thought and even
overrule consideration. Yet, although there is a sequence of context, there is no
logical argument …”19 The premise of the volume is outlined in the Preface: “To
put it briefly, man is a spiritual being, and the proper work of his mind is to interpret
the world according to his higher nature, and to conquer the material aspects of
the world so as to bring them into subjection to the spirit.”20 Of the 449 prose and
verse selections in the volume, numbers 133, 343, 441, 448, and 449 were chosen,
their provenance known by all educated English men and women of the time or
easily identifiable by following Bridges’ directions printed in the Preface to the
Index—“If the reader will put the book-marker between those pages of the Index
which correspond with the pages of the text where he is reading, he will readily
find the information that he wants”21—as Wordsworth (“Our birth is but a sleep
and a forgetting”), Blake (“To find the western path”), Shelley (“The One remains,
the many change and pass” and “Love, from its awful throne of patient power”),
and the Salisbury Diurnal (“Holy is the true light”) in a translation by Dr. G.H.
Palmer. In point of fact, number 133 became the text for the first movement, while
numbers 343, 441, 448, and 449 were reserved for the last.
However, only numbers 343 and 449 were used as printed in the anthology
by Bridges; the others were subjected to careful pruning. Number 133 consists of
stanzas 1, 4 (the final two lines), 5, and 7 of Wordsworth’s Ode, from which Dyson
used the fifth stanza (the first eight lines only) and the seventh stanza (the first four
lines, followed by a deletion of the next sixteen, then the remainder to the end with
lines 30 and 38 omitted). Through his judicious cutting—stanza 1 (“There was a
time when meadow, grove, and stream, / The earth, and every common sight,” and
so on) and the designated lines—Dyson more perfectly satisfied his compositional
aim: that is, he avoided Wordsworth’s initial narrative-as-ramble mode and diluted
the philosophic presentation of an ecstatic before and a disappointing after that is
the essence of the Ode.
Number 441 consists of stanzas 39, 40, 42, 43, 44, and 52 from Adonais,
Shelley’s poem on the death of Keats. Dyson begins with stanza 52, as it appears
in Bridges’ anthology (it is deleted half-way through the seventh line), goes to the
first lines of stanzas 53 and 54, respectively, omits most of the second line and all
the third (of stanza 54) and, thereafter, follows with line 4, half of line 8, and all
of 9. He ends with stanza 55, deleting the mention of Adonais in line 8, then adds
number 448 of the anthology, an excerpt from Act IV of Prometheus Unbound,
but omits line 553, the first line presented, as well as lines 565–7 and part of line
575. Here, several ideas are distilled: after experience innocence can be regained,
in death one escapes from the shadowy mutable world into a higher visionary
existence, and universal love requires eternal vigilance. The presence of lines not
found in The Spirit of Man and lyrics by additional poets indicates other sources
for Quo Vadis; but, clearly, all of the selections were favorites of the composer and
of his wife, who we may assume helped to construct the text as she did others.22
To Howes, Dyson’s “extravagance in pouring so much of the finest poetic gold
into the crucible of a musical mind predominantly extravert, … is not beyond
reproach, since it would take an imagination of the highest penetration, a very rich
invention and something more ardent than Dyson’s detached contemplation to do
such poetry justice,” an opinion he repeated in his obituary of the composer—
“There are good things in his oratorio Quo Vadis? but his mind was too extravert to
be fired by metaphysical poetry to an equivalent intensity”—using the generic label
in its broadest sense to mean a longer form of choral music, the concert oratorio, or
the secular cantata, whose purpose is edification through music (Dyson, however,
labeled his work a “Cycle of Poems”). Howes went on to qualify: “But his aim
is actually more modest: it is to contemplate with a steady gaze the vision of the
poets and by means of an impeccable craftsmanship to make the vision his own.
… Quo Vadis?, therefore, was well suited to the occasion of its composition; it
maintained Parry’s tradition of inspiring choral writing and also continued Parry’s
exploration of ethical idealism as a field of musical expression.”23
Palmer asserted that the best music in Quo Vadis is located “in those movements
where the poet-composer contemplates the universe and finds in the material
world, in natural phenomena, a range of imagery which will help him to make
musically articulate his perception of the spiritual.” Thus,
in the first movement [Dyson] envisions Wordsworth’s “clouds of glory” which

suggests a slow-moving cloudscape of gently shifting colours; and inasmuch
as in sky and sea is a natural congruence, this extract from Intimations of
Immortality ends with the “mighty water rolling evermore”. The third movement
is an ecstatic celebration of Barnaby Barnes’s “glorious scaffold of the skies”,
“highest heaven’s resplendent hierarchies”. There is a touch of cosmic grandeur
in the “silent stately march” of the stars, the sons of light—and no composer
with so pronounced a theatrical streak as Dyson could have failed to respond to
the magnificence of Sternhold’s ‘The Lord descended from above / And bowed
the heavens on high, / And underneath his feet he cast / The darkness of the sky; /
On Cherubim and Seraphim / Full royally he rode, / And on the wings of mighty
winds / Came flying all abroad”.24
Palmer’s opinion is accurate, but a précis of the work—of its musical and textual
elements—is needed before examining some of its more arresting features.25
The first movement (“Our birth is but a sleep”)—Dyson’s titles are in
brackets—is the only choral movement without soloists and utilizes words from
Wordsworth’s Intimations of Immortality, as indicated above. Predicated on the
well-known phrases of “Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting” and “trailing
clouds of glory do we come / From God, who is our home,” Heaven is depicted
in a quiet orchestral passage over a long-sustained A, which introduces Dyson’s
propensity in this work to use pedals to postpone tonal commitment or to create
tonal ambivalence. The music to the lines from the fifth stanza is developed
from an expressive motif (x) that appears initially during the introduction (at
rehearsal number 1) and, thereafter, recurs frequently in its original or a varied
form throughout the composition; indeed, it forges palpable connections within
and across the movements (Example 11.1). That is true for other compositional
elements, as well: for example, the harmonic simultaneity (at rehearsal number
2—an F# minor chord with an added sixth), which, in other forms, referentially
joins or links several sections (see the passage at six measures before rehearsal
number 7; at nine measures after rehearsal number 16; at two measures before
rehearsal number 30; at three measures before rehearsal number 102; and at
rehearsal numbers 119, 120, and 129). The motif is taken up eventually by the
choral voices (at rehearsal number 4). With the change to the ninth stanza, there
is a long passage of contrasting material for unaccompanied chorus in six to eight
parts (“O joy! That in our embers / Is something that doth live, / That nature yet
remembers / What was so fugitive”), the chromatic notes and unusual progressions
which depict “Those shadowy recollections.” After a return to motif x, the lines
“Hence in a season of calm weather” are set in flowing music that grows into
an ornate texture of moving parts, choral and orchestral—while the outbursts (at
rehearsal numbers 14 and 15) illustrate that Dyson’s climaxes, glowingly consonant
or dissonant, will be achieved by traditional means (that is, the proliferation of
rhythmic activity, the expansion of the textural width, the timing of modulations,
and so on)—before subsiding in a quiet ending. McNaught, when writing about
the first performance, centered on “Wordsworth’s high-flown sentiments and long-
drawn constructions” as a reason why the first movement “may have made the
least definite effect”; specifically he thought Wordsworth’s lyrics “do not lend
themselves either to choral declamation or to the overlappings and repetitions
of a polyphonic texture.”26 His observation had merit—for Wordsworth’s lyrics
have proven difficult to set to music, inasmuch as “the lines have a flux and an
intonation, not to mention a vocabulary, all their own, and they are not the flux
and intonation of music”27—and it foreshadowed the criticisms leveled at Finzi’s
Intimations of Immortality.
The second movement (“Rise, O my soul”) is meditational in orientation. It
is scored for contralto soloist, with occasional interjections by a semi-chorus, to
settings of verses taken from Sir Walter Raleigh, the Elizabethan poet and musician
Thomas Campion, the Jacobean dramatist Thomas Heywood, and the Sarum
Psalter. The introduction includes a chromatic passage (see mm. 5–8) that will
recur at various points in the work (see, for example, rehearsal numbers 55 and
86, and twenty bars after rehearsal number 98). After a verse of Raleigh (“Rise, O
my soul”) has been sung in unaccompanied solo recitative, two verses by Campion
(“To music bent is my retired muse”) are set in a delicate cantabile. The semi-
chorus joins the contralto (at rehearsal number 21) for Heywood’s lyric (“O, make
us apt to seek and quick to find, / Thou God most kind” and “Grant that our willing
though unworthy quest, / May, through thy Grace, admit us ’mongst the blest”).
Then, the music to lines from the Sarum Psalter, beginning “God be in my head,”
is antiphonally set for solo and semi-chorus in the key of C major until the end,
when there is a sudden, momentary, and extremely affective change to C# minor,
pianissimo; at this point, a gentle phrase in the orchestra leads to the restoration of
the key by the chorus at the final cadence (see rehearsal number 24 passim).
The third movement (“O whither shall my troubled muse incline”) introduces a
bass solo with words from Barnaby Barnes in “O whither shall my troubled muse
incline, / If not the glorious scaffold of the skies.” It continues with verses from
three poets, each of whom is given different music, the effect being juxtapositional
yet rapturous. Barnaby speaks of his “troubled muse” and the difficulty of trying
to describe Heaven with words. The bass, driven beyond his power to articulate
precisely, nevertheless declaims passionately while the orchestra punctuates with
persistent patterns of sixteenths. Robert Herrick’s lines in “To find God” are
similar (at rehearsal number 27): “Weigh me the fire,” he says, “measure out the
wind,” “fetch back that cloud … / Beshivered into seeds of rain”; they continue
Example 11.1 Quo Vadis by George Dyson, movement 1, motif x (vocal score;
Novello, 1939), p. 1
in two more couplets, challenging the listener, and triumphantly conclude: “if
thou canst; then show me Him / That rides the glorious Cherubim.” In answer the
chorus exclaims that “the myriad world is the measure of omnipotence, to instill
not perplexity but confidence in Divine majesty.”28 The musical discourse changes
from solo declamation with convulsive rhythm to choral entries (using the words
of Thomas Lynch), march-like and imitative (see rehearsal number 30), which
yield briefly to an orchestral texture of a more gentle nature at “In graduate scale of
night” (rehearsal number 34), and then, at “O glorious countless host” (rehearsal
number 38), the music grows more rhapsodic. In this complex of cumulative
sections and those that follow, the disposition of the choral writing employed by
Dyson owes much to the sequential passages of Parry. “O Thou unswerving will”
(at rehearsal number 40) brings a rhetorical display, then the tempo increases (at
rehearsal number 42) with “The Lord descended from above” (the beginning of
Thomas Sternhold’s verse), and the next few pages are a rich texture of shifting
parts and fluid harmony: perhaps the acme of Dyson’s polyphonic complexity and
certainly the climax of Part I of the work.
The fourth movement (“Night hath no wings”), for tenor solo and semi-chorus,
is a disquieting interlude. Beginning with Herrick’s “Night hath no wings, to him
that cannot sleep,” from which Dyson edits out part of the fourth line (“or cracked
her axletree”), the first word of the fifth line (“Just”), and lines 14 and 15 (“Draw
me, but first, and after Thee I’ll run, / And make no one stop, till my race be
done”)—the melodic phrases of the plaintive tenor are preceded and accompanied
by the introspective, probing viola—it continues with the same poet’s litany “In
the hour of my distress.” Here, Dyson uses stanzas 1, 3, and 9 of the twelve that
make up the poem to envision the psychological realism of the speaker/singer
being mentally “tossed about, / Either with despair, or doubt.” The voice ascends
higher upon each iteration of the prayerful refrain, “Sweet spirit, comfort me,”
after which the orchestra interjects a sigh (at rehearsal 55), a chromatic gesture that
was introduced in movement 2. Though the refrain is responsible for the childlike
quality of Herrick’s poem—in the sense of the child’s complete acceptance and
dependence upon God (as opposed to Traherne or Wordsworth, in whose poems
the child represents a desire for a lost innocence)—it does not produce that effect
in Dyson’s reading/setting of it. Thereafter, the verse by Isaac Williams, “Unto
the east we turn with watchful eyes,” is given largely to the semi-chorus in quiet
homophony. At the end, the tenor reiterates Herrick’s “Sweet spirit, comfort me”
and the music passes away in a whisper.
The fifth movement to a text by Keble (“O timely happy, timely wise”) is
the second longest of the work and brings together for the first time the quartet
of soloists, chorus, and semi-chorus. Here the soloists have much contrapuntal
writing on an eloquent melodic theme that is Parry-like. Its manipulation highlights
Dyson’s orchestral mastery (exposed frequently in the score), especially at its
luxurious reiteration (rehearsal number 72), where the tutti radiates the affirmative
glow of Elgar and the sensual sheen of Strauss. At “The Saviour lends the light and
heat / that crown His holy hill,” the soloists are joined by the chorus in a sustained
cantabile that progresses from key to key through the enormous climax of “One
Name, above all glorious names” (at rehearsal number 76) to “Echoing angelic
songs” (at rehearsal number 78), where it recedes to a reiterated melodic phrase.
Into the ensuing hush (rehearsal number 79) floats the Vexilla regis, with which
Holst commenced The Hymn of Jesus, a reminder of the mystic sacrifice which
“our sentence bore, our ransom paid.” It is sung to the plainsong melody by a
three-part choir of boys supported by a pedal E@ (a magical passage that Rubbra
must have known and referred to when working at his Sinfonia Sacra) and, then,
repeated by the accompanied unison chorus, pianissimo, an octave lower, in Neale’s
English version. After this, there is a brief return to music for the soli alone, but
the full chorus is quickly drawn into their orbit (rehearsal number 82). With the
exception of one outburst (at “the common task, / Would furnish all we ought to
ask / Room to deny ourselves, a road / To bring us daily nearer to God”), the music
remains subdued in mood to the end where its physiognomy again turns prayerful
(at rehearsal number 86): “Only, O Lord, in thy dear love, / Fit us for perfect rest
above; / And help us this and every day / To live more nearly as we pray.”
The second part of the work opens with a soaring soprano solo to a poem
by Henry Vaughan (“The Water-fall”), in its entirety the sixth movement (“Dear
stream! dear bank”), which, comparing the river of life to the passing of time,
is about temporal existence, death, resurrection, and immortality. Dyson sets
eighteen lines of Vaughan’s forty, however, placing the first twelve lines (beginning
“With what deep murmurs through times silent stealth”) after the subsequent six
(commencing with “Dear stream! dear bank, where often I / Have sat”). It is paired
with a haunting setting (at rehearsal number 95) of George Herbert’s paraphrase
of Psalm 23, “The God of Love my shepherd is,” the only psalm translation in
The Temple, in which the soprano’s words are answered by pastoral solo violin
and oboe. Of Herbert’s six verses, Dyson sets 1, 4, and 6—omitting the second,
curiously, which broaches the poetic conceit (“the streams that gently pass”) that
provides the explicit connection with Vaughan’s poem, though it would have
been unnecessary to Dyson and his listeners because poetic exegesis of the time
stressed Herbert’s influence on Vaughan’s poems—to emphasize God’s bountiful
providence as master and host, and man’s enduring gratefulness. From beginning
to end, the orchestral disposition acknowledges Dyson’s sympathies as an English
pastoralist and is laced with pungent harmonic material (see, in particular, the
introductory chords), which recurs in an altered state at the momentous climax
(“Love, from its awful throne of patient power”) in the last movement (see
rehearsal number 128).
The seventh movement (“Come to me, God”) features the bass soloist singing
Robert Herrick’s “Come to me, God; but do not come / As to the general doom”
to an angry march, rugged and chromatic, whose ostinato pattern becomes (at
rehearsal number 100) the smooth bass of “Speak thou of love, and I’ll reply”; a
lovely setting (at rehearsal number 102), also for bass alone, of Herrick’s “In this
world (the Isle of Dreams),” very reminiscent of the contours and cadences of
Anglican chant or renaissance song; and a memorable choral setting (at rehearsal
number 104) of Henry Vaughan’s “My soul, there is a country far beyond the
stars” (also set by Parry) in which, near the end (at rehearsal number 107), the
soloist reemerges above the chorus (“He is thy gracious friend”) to create an effect
of the greatest profundity.
The eighth movement (“They are at rest”) uses the words of John Henry
Newman, known of course as the author of The Dream of Gerontius. It features
the contralto soloist supported by strings with winds and concludes with extended,
florid “Alleluias” from the quartet. As with the sixth movement, Dyson’s orchestral
fluency is exquisite and especially arresting (beginning eight bars before 113)
where it frames lines 7–10 (“They hear it sweep / In distance down the dark and
savage vale; / But they at eddying pool and current deep / Shall never more grow
pale”). Palmer completed his brief discussion of Quo Vadis with this movement,
calling it “one of its most intimate and beautiful moments, the setting of Newman’s
‘They are at rest’—not the greatest poetry, but raised to a higher power in the
crucible of musical imagination as it incarnates, as it were, in angelic sound, ‘the
verses of that hymn which seraphs chant above’.”29
The extraordinary final movement for tenor solo, quartet, and chorus (“To
find the western path”) uses the texts of Blake, Shelley, and the Salisbury Diurnal
(“Holy is the true light”), as described above. Here, “the shifting cloudscapes
and nature-rhythms of the first movement return, but in altered perspective—
for there we were being born into ‘a sleep and a forgetting’, here we are dying
into the ‘white radiance of Eternity’.”30 Commencing with a reprise of the
work’s opening music, the tenor delivers his recitative-like statements between
fragments of motif x. The second section, “The One remains,” is taken primarily
from Adonais, Shelley’s poem on the death of Keats, but includes “To suffer
woes” from Prometheus Unbound, as we have seen. It begins with a chorale-

like setting—very much like those by Parry and later Finzi—the theme of which
is derived from the preceding, then moves through a construct of stunning
paragraphs that are alternatively homophonic or polyphonic—“Love, from its
awful throne” (astonishingly imposing in its grandeur) for chorus; “Gentleness,
Virtue, Wisdom and Endurance” (polyphonic and sweet) for semi-chorus; “To
suffer woes” (dramatically homophonic) for full chorus; “This is alone Life”
(vigorously contrapuntal and rhythmically pounding)—before reaching “Holy is
the true light” (persistently in a 45 meter) for solo quartet, at first, then semi-chorus
and full chorus, which also was set by Howells at the end of Hymnus Paradisi.
But with its largely contrapuntal disposition, intricate and incandescent—Banfield
labels Howells’s idiom “existential modality with its flux of octatonics, winging
rhythms and ecstatic lines”31—the latter is nothing like the former’s predominantly
homophonic-cum-imitative texture—limpid, rapt, and serene—which in general
unfolds within a diatonic framework, enriched by chromatic discords not unlike
those of Delius, complemented by Strauss’s orchestral panache, and modality
similar to Vaughan Williams. The work concludes with the lines “they inherit a
home of unfading splendour, wherein they rejoice with gladness for evermore,”
a last elongated statement of motif x, and an unresolved C major seventh chord
which dissolves into a silence representing the transient nature of life and musically
reminiscent, in its own way, of the ending of A Sea Symphony.
The Influence of Walford Davies and Noble Numbers
The design of Quo Vadis may have been influenced by Walford Davies (1869–1941),
who set an early precedent for it with Noble Numbers. Written for the Hereford
Festival of 1909, it juxtaposes texts by Robert Herrick—including “Weigh me the
fire” and “In the hour of my distress” also set in Quo Vadis—George Herbert, John
Donne, and an anonymous poet.32 Davies began his musical training (1882) in the
choir of St. George’s Chapel, Windsor, where for five years he was a pupil assistant
to Walter Parratt. In 1890 a composition scholarship took him to the RCM. There
he studied with both Parry and Stanford and in 1895 joined the staff as a teacher of
counterpoint. In 1898 he became organist and choirmaster at the Temple Church, a
post he held with much distinction for twenty-one years. Eventually, he was knighted
(1922) and on the death of Elgar (1934) became Master of the King’s Music. As
mentioned previously, Dyson was a member of the organ classes taught by Davies
at the RCM, classes that were of some importance to his educational formation and,
later, he and Davies were “united in friendship and mutual admiration.” Indeed,
Dyson’s second book, The Progress of Music (1932), “grew out of some of the
broadcasts he had given in Music and the Ordinary Listener, a weekly series he
took over from its originator Davies in 1930 and continued for two years.”33
Of the 271 short poems which Herrick called his Noble Numbers, eleven were set
by Davies in the work of the same name (that is, “’Tis hard to find God,” “Weigh me
the fire,” “God’s said to dwell there,” “Grace for a child,” “Go, pretty child, and bear
this flower,” “What sweeter music,” “Christ He requires still,” “Along the dark and
silent night,” “In the hour of my distress,” “Open thy gates,” and “No man is tempted
so”), and two others stand as mottoes at its beginning and ending. To these are added
six poems by George Herbert (that is, “Whither, O, whither art Thou fled,” “How
should I praise Thee,” “I struck the board and cried, No more,” “O who will show
me those delights on high,” “Come my Way, my Truth, my Life,” and “Let all the
world in every corner sing,” the latter two set by Vaughan Williams and published in
1911 as part of Five Mystical Songs), a fragment from a longer poem by John Donne
(“Since Christ embraced the Cross itself, dare I”), and part of an anonymous poem of
the same period (“Yet if his majesty our sovereign Lord”).34
For solo voices, chorus, cello, and orchestra, Noble Numbers is divided into two
parts of eighteen movements (the first part consists of movements 1–9, the second of
10–18), sequenced in the following manner:
1. “’Tis Hard to Find God,” a prelude for quartet and chorus (D major);
2. “Weigh Me the Fire” for quartet and chorus (D minor);
3. “The Search” (“Whither, O whither …”) for solo contralto (begins on A [2
bars] then D minor);
4. “God’s Dwelling” (“God’s said to dwell there”) for unaccompanied chorus
(D major);
5. “Grace for a Child” (“Here a little child I stand”) for solo soprano, specifically
a member of the chorus (D major);
6. “To the Saviour, a Child” (“Go, pretty child”) for solo contralto (D major);
7. “What Sweeter Music” for solo soprano and semi-chorus (E minor/G major);
8. “A Royal Guest” (“Yet if his majesty …”), a recitative for bass (E minor);
9. “Christ’s Part” (“Christ He requires still”), a choral aria and solo quartet (E
major);
10. “How should I praise Thee” for a trio—tenor, baritone, and bass—and men’s
chorus (B major);
11. “The Bell-Man” (“Along the dark and silent night”) for solo bass (E minor);
12. “Litany: To the Holy Spirit” (“In the hour of my distress”) for quartet and
chorus (C minor);
13. “The Revolt” (“I struck the board and cried …”) for solo tenor (A minor/A
major);
14. “Heaven’s Echo” (“O who will show me …”) for solo soprano with echo
voice (E major);
15. “Christ and the Cross” (“Since Christ embraced the Cross itself …”) for chorus
(A minor); and 15a. “To Heaven” (“Open thy gates”) for unaccompanied
men’s chorus (A major);
16. “The Call” (“Come my way …”) for quartet and chorus (D major);
17. “The Mastery” (“No man is tempted so …”), an orchestral interlude (D
major); and
18. “Let All the World in Every Corner Sing” for quintet and chorus (D major).
The work starts with an imposing orchestral Entrata (³¼, Andante, quarter = 72)
of 49 measures. No. 1, “’Tis Hard to Find God,” is set in D minor (¡, Lento e mesto),
begins with a melodic statement in the orchestra (d1, a1, b@1, a1, d1) and then a choral
statement that cadences on the dominant. Subsequently there is a long orchestral
interlude of 133 measures—rhapsodic and discursive (D minor, alla breve, L’istesso
tempo, half-note = quarter-note)—which ends without resolution on an augmented
chord (from the bass up: A, E@, A, C#, A, C#) forte and tremulous. After “Weigh me
the fire” (quartet and chorus), a bold number, a contralto song “Whither, O whither
art Thou fled” “leads to a group of such simplicity as to make it difficult to reconcile
it with the strenuous opening,” according to Davies’s biographer, H.C. Colles. “Many
of these songs, ‘Grace for a child’, a carol ‘What sweeter music’, ‘A Royal Guest’
(anonymous), ‘The Bellman’, ‘Heaven’s Echo’ (Herbert), have a rare and intimate
quality which is all Walford’s own. One can discern his ‘touch’ in them, that touch
of devotion which came into his piano playing when he sat down to his favourite
movement from Beethoven. The solemn unaccompanied quartet and chorus, ‘God’s
said to dwell there’, even contains a suggestion of quotation from Beethoven.”35 In
the opinion of Colles, Noble Numbers “might have been a … masterpiece” if Davies
had written a choral suite “subtle in form and delicate in texture. … As it was, Walford
was … oppressed by the knowledge that he had to fill [a long morning] in a festival
programme, and instead of being content with a handful of his favourite poems from
Herrick he developed Noble Numbers into the elaborated scheme described above.”36
In any event, Colles goes on to write, “Walford recognized the incongruities in Noble
Numbers, which, however, held his affection as it did that of his many friends.”37
Are there points of contact between Noble Numbers and Quo Vadis beyond their
anthology structure? For “Weigh me the fire,” a verse argument—officially titled “To
find God” and the central issue of Noble Numbers—in which Herrick demonstrates
that God is beyond humankind’s grasp, Dyson used all sixteen lines of the poem, as
did Davies, and the latter’s setting, with its impetuous orchestral rhythmic patterns
(two sixteenths and an eighth) and syncopations (eighths), must have influenced
the former’s, which evinces rhythmic similarities. For “In the hour of my distress,”
Dyson used verses 1, 3, and 9 of Herrick’s poem, as did Davies, who also added
verse 12, and, interestingly, the latter’s setting features an abrupt modulation from C
minor to C# minor (the harmonic inflection is from F minor to F# minor, to be exact)
that adumbrates, obliquely, the former’s modulation at the end of “God Be in My
Head,” though there it progresses from C major to C# minor. Finally, Dyson’s setting
of “Dear stream, dear bank,” though by Vaughan, is reminiscent of Davies’s setting of
Herrick’s “Christ He requires still,” for both share the key of E major and a compound
meter (the latter ¾þ , the former ¾
¹ ).
It is possible that other works by Davies may have had a bearing on Quo Vadis; for
example, The Long Journey, Op. 25 (1908), a sequence of songs for bass voice and
piano, which uses lines by Wordsworth (“Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: / The
Soul that rises with us, our life’s star, / Hath had elsewhere its setting, / And cometh
from afar: / Not in entire forgetfulness, / And not in utter nakedness, / But trailing
clouds of glory do we come / From God, who is our home”), Blake, Campion, and
Herrick, to name a few, or one of the choral-orchestral essays that Davies composed
during the early years of the twentieth century. One should mention, as well, that the
Sarum Prayer “God be in my Head,” best known in the setting by Davies, appears in
Quo Vadis. Finally, Davies’s autograph manuscripts housed in the RCM Library—a
rich deposit—await a systematic examination.38
Dyson’s Compositional Method: the Seventh Movement Closely Examined
Let us look more closely at a specific movement in Quo Vadis, the seventh (“Come
to me, God”), which demonstrates perfectly Dyson’s method of conflating texts
and linking compositional episodes in the work. A sequence of three dramatic
moods—an awe-struck prelude for bass solo to Herrick’s “To God” (“Come to
me, God”), a serene modal intermezzo to Herrick’s “The white Island: or place of
the Blest” (“In this world, the Isle of Dreams”), also for bass, and a luminescent
conclusion for chorus to Henry Vaughan’s “Peace” (“My soul, there is a
country”)—it is especially fine.
In the first three couplets of Herrick’s poem “To God,” the Almighty is portrayed
as the Old Testament’s Yahweh, the giver of the Ten Commandments to Moses:
Come to me, God; but do not come

[To me,] as to the general Doom,
In power; or come Thou in that state,
When Thou Thy laws didst promulgate,
When as the mountain quaked for dread,
And sullen clouds bound up his head.
Dyson responds with a powerful setting (omitting the bracketed words and
lines above and below) for solo bass (³½ and Deliberate) that matches the rhetoric
and imagery with incessant orchestral gestures—a ground bass (pesante e
marcato) with ascending chromatic sixteenth-note figures occurring on the second
beat of each measure—and melodic/vocal pleadings (Example 11.2). So vividly is
the scene musically envisioned that the listener may forget that it is an extended
metaphor for a state of mind—the poet’s and composer’s effort to imagine a deity,
who becomes, in the last three couplets, a God less intimidating and majestic (that
is, the New Testament God of love):
Speak thou of love and I’ll reply

[By way of Epithalmie,]
Or sing of mercy, and I’ll suit
To it my viol and my lute:
Thus let Thy lips but love distil,
Then come my God, and hap what will.
Here Dyson alters his music to reflect Herrick’s poetic shift: the ground bass becomes
mellifluous and the chromatic patterns dissolve into harmonious loveliness (see
rehearsal number 100). If God arrives bearing a message for all humankind, Herrick
says, if the deity appears as poet, singing of his compassion for humanity, then he will
accompany the divine lyric.
Surely, this picture of “viol” and “lute” suggested the manner in which Dyson
fashioned the next section of the movement, Herrick’s vision of Heaven as a white
island (“The white Island: or place of the Blest”), from which Dyson used four of the
six stanzas (1, 2, 3, and 5). It sounds very much like a Renaissance song or Anglican
chant, because of its euphonious vocal strains, modal progressions, Phrygian
cadences, and structural framework (Example 11.3). Indeed, seventeenth-century
listeners would have been accustomed to Dyson’s supple music, as they were to
Herrick’s portrayal of “this world” as a vale of tears from which death is a welcome
release:
In this world (the Isle of Dreams)

While we sit by sorrow’s streams,
Tears and terrors are our themes
Reciting:
But when once from hence we fly,

More and more approaching nigh
Unto young Eternity
Uniting:
These two stanzas are cast in G Mixolydian mode with each line, chanted by solo
bass supported by slowly changing chords, flowing to Phrygian cadences (in an E
mode: iv6–V or a6–B) at “Reciting” and “Uniting.” The second stanza carries with it
the agent of escape (“we fly”) and, hence, the mood is transformed in the third and
fifth stanzas:
In that whiter Island, where

Things are evermore sincere;
Candour here, and lustre there
Delighting:
There in calm and cooling sleep

We our eyes shall never steep;
But eternal watch shall keep,
Attending.
The music pivots to an E Phrygian mode, escaping to Heaven and immortality,

but follows the flexible pattern established in stanzas 1 and 2. The elegantly dispensed
lines of stanza 3 unwind to a Phrygian cadence (in B mode: e6–F#) at “Delighting,”
while those of stanza 5 reach a B major pause—Herrick’s poem does not so
Example 11.2 Quo Vadis by George Dyson, movement 7, “Come To Me, God”
much conclude as stop, a cessation that Dyson mirrors—via chords with graceful
suspensions (E, D, C, and B) that sink on “sleep,” “steep,” “keep,” and “Attending.”
Undoubtedly, Herrick’s image of Heaven as a “white Island” led Dyson to
Henry Vaughan’s “country / Far beyond the stars,” a poem (entitled “Peace”) about
Heaven, too, and the way thither, though Herrick was curiously silent about the
latter, which the composer incorporated in its entirety as the culminating section
of movement 7. The poem is composed of five quatrains: the first provides a vision
of Heaven guarded by a “winged sentry”; the second depicts Heaven as the locus
of peace and under the authority of Christ; the third characterizes Christ as “thy
gracious friend,” addresses the soul again, this time with an admonishment, and
Example 11.3 Quo Vadis by George Dyson, movement 7, “In this world (the
Isle of Dreams)” (vocal score; Novello, 1949), pp. 119–20
asserts the Atonement; the fourth establishes a condition to heavenly joys; and the
last is an encouragement to correct, together with the reason for correcting: there is
only one security, God. Dyson sets the five quatrains in broadly conceived musical
paragraphs (the third and fourth are combined), each demarcated by various key
signatures or internal modulations.
The lines of the first quatrain (see rehearsal number 104) are imitatively
dispensed by the chorus, B, T, A, S, slowly marching in blocked harmony, emerging
out of the dilatory space of the preceding musical episode, the first couplet in B
major, the second in E minor (Example 11.4). The second quatrain is similarly
treated (though the orchestral texture admits more motion), as the chorus parses
the two couplets, S, A, T/B, in D@ and E@ passages, respectively.
My soul, there is a country

Far beyond the stars,
Where stands a winged sentry
All skilful in the wars,
There above noise, and danger
Sweet peace sits crowned with smiles,
And one born in a Manger
Commands the Beauteous files,
Example 11.4 Quo Vadis by George Dyson, movement seven, “My soul, there
is a country” (vocal score; Novello, 1949), p. 121
Vaughan composed “Peace” without stanza divisions, emphasizing the fluidity

of thought through an interlocking structure, but Dyson’s setting uses necessary
musical transitions (though brief) as, for example, that between the two quatrains,
effected by a dominant-seventh / augmented-sixth chord (enharmonically spelled:
A/C#/E/G = B@@/D@/F@/F*), that leads to the next section in D@ major (at rehearsal
number 106). Vaughan’s exalted tone for the first two quatrains shifts to one of
pleading in the third, accounting for Dyson’s readmission (and its remarkable
puissance) of the bass soloist (at rehearsal number 107). Here, the chorus assumes
an antiphonal role, repeatedly intoning “O my soul awake,” while the bass sings
the remaining lines of the third and fourth quatrains.
He is thy gracious friend,

And (O my Soul awake!)
Did in pure love descend
To die here for thy sake,
If thou canst get but thither,
There grows the flower of peace,
The Rose that cannot wither,
Thy fortress, and thy ease;
The evangelical tone continues to the end, underlined by turbulent harmonic

progressions, calling forth an increase in intensity that Dyson supplies. The final
quatrain is a blaze of orchestral sound, the first three lines dispensed by the chorus,
S/A, T/B, then combined for a climax suffused with radiance on the last line “Thy
God, thy life, thy Cure.”
Leave then thy foolish ranges;

For none can thee secure,
But one, who never changes,
Thy God, thy life, thy Cure.
The movement closes with a last iteration of the first couplet and its music,
“My soul, there is a country / Far beyond the stars,” the chorus fading on a thrice-
repeated augmented-sixth chord on “far,” at first B, T/A, S, then T/A/S, and
finally A/S, before a last statement with the bass soloist of “Far beyond the stars.”
Clearly, the tonal stresses are expressive rather than structural, the A6 chord being
central to the process, and Dyson’s chord progressions are referable to orthodox
functions; even so, the result is affirmatively affective within well-used expressive
conventions.
A Consummate Setting
Quo Vadis reveals the consummate skill with which George Dyson completed
his magnum opus. The literary text is a collection of his favorite poems, some of
which were used earlier by Davies (“Weigh me the fire” and “In the hour of my
distress”) in Noble Numbers and Parry (“My soul, there is a country”), one of his
supreme, valedictory Songs of Farewell; and, coincidentally, at about the same
time, by Finzi (lines by Wordsworth) and Howells (“Holy is the true light”) in
Intimations of Immortality and Hymnus Paradisi, respectively. The poems may
be enjoyed individually, though they should be considered sequentially since their
interaction is a vital feature of the work, the design of which was influenced by
Davies in his choral-orchestral work. The same may be said of the music: although
the movements may be scrutinized separately and a few may be extracted for
the purposes of performance, the work is most rewarding if approached as a
whole. Dyson was eminently successful in contemplating the vision of the poets
and illuminating it through his attractive score, which reveals much more than
is recorded herein. That it will continue to demand repeated aural hearings and
score study in light of changing perspectives is a given. Such hearings may well
alter its reception, as well as Dyson’s, a subject about which he took a detached
philosophical approach, as demonstrated in Fiddling while Rome Burns (1954),
his autobiographical last book. “Contemporary judgements are and must always
be tentative and unreliable, often ludicrously so. The indispensable time factor is
missing. We cannot know what posterity will think, and theirs will be the crucial
proof of permanent value, not ours.” Moreover, “nothing is more hollow than the
plea that posterity will vindicate us. What posterity will do is completely to forget
most of us, and if the future should ultimately elevate one of our contemporaries
into a great master, it will certainly not be the present general favourite.” Finally,
“time is the real winnowing agent, and that means in effect the cumulative
experience of the future, not the prophecies or plaudits of today.”39 It is obvious
from these sentences that Dyson composed not for posterity but only to please
himself and his friends. “However much, or little, value [my works] have,” he
wrote, “it is my main recreation, needs no apparatus, and has no end.”40
Notes
1 The Musical Times (October 1946) as quoted in Anthony Boden, Three Choirs: A
History of the Festival (Gloucestershire, 1992), p. 183.
2 George Dyson, “The First Half of the Twentieth Century,” in Henry Hadow, Music
(Oxford, 1949), pp. 149–50.
3 Frank Howes, “Obituary: Sir George Dyson,” RCM Magazine, 61/1 (1965): 23.
4 Robert Stradling and Meirion Hughes, The English Musical Renaissance 1860–
1940: Construction and Deconstruction (London and New York, 1993; 2nd rev. ed.,
Manchester, 2001), p. 150.
5 See Hubert Parry, College Addresses (London, 1920), pp. 10, 178–9, and 168).
6 Charles Villiers Stanford, Interludes, Records and Reflections (London, 1922), pp.
80, 100.
7 George Dyson, Fiddling while Rome Burns (London, 1954), p. 12.
8 Ibid., p. 11. “There was a good choral society in our town and a struggling amateur
orchestra,” Dyson remembered. “We had in our neighbourhood what we held to be
the finest brass band in the world, Black Dyke, and a number of others of second
rank. The only professional orchestra of standing, the Hallé, was thirty miles away
at Manchester.” His musical aptitude revealed itself very early. “I was not quite four
years old when a hurdy-gurdy began to play in the street outside and I ran, I am told,
to the piano and picked out at once and correctly some of the notes the hurdy-gurdy
was playing. I had already tried to find ‘tunes’ on the keyboard, but this evidence of
what is called ‘perfect’ or ‘absolute’ pitch sealed my fate. … I cannot remember the
time when I could not read music and hear what I read.” Ibid., p. 21.
9 Ibid., p. 21.
10 Ibid., p. 12.
11 Ibid.
12 Dyson in Christopher Palmer (ed.), Dyson’s Delight: An Anthology of Sir George
Dyson’s Writings and Talks on Music (London, 1989), pp. 127–9.
13 Although Dyson’s genius favored vocal expression, a number of instrumental
compositions were issued during the three periods as demarcated above (and
performed at Winchester unless otherwise noted): the Prelude, Fantasy, and
Chaconne (Hereford, 1935) for cello and small orchestra; Symphony in G (London,
1937); Violin Concerto (1942); At the Tabard Inn (1943), an overture for orchestra,
designed to precede The Canterbury Pilgrims and using fragments from it; Concerto
da Camera (Chelmsford, 1949) for nine-part strings; Concerto da Chiesa (1950),
for string quartet and string orchestra; and Fantasia and Ground Bass (1960) and
Variations on Old Psalm-Tunes (1960), both for organ.
14 Stephen Banfield, “Vocal Music,” in Stephen Banfield (ed.), The Twentieth Century:
The Blackwell History of Music in Britain, vol. 6 (Oxford, 1995). “Dyson’s biggest
choral work, Quo vadis?, remained unperformed until after the Second World War,
and it was one of a number of similar instances. Finzi’s Intimations of Immortality,
Howells’s Hymnus paradisi and Armstrong Gibbs’s choral symphony Odysseus
were all conceived or completed by 1939 but not performed for a decade or
more; additionally, like Vaughan Williams’s The Pilgrim’s Progress, they were all
humanistic ‘quest’ works of one kind or another …” pp. 416–17.
15 The dates of the fifteen poets are: William Wordsworth (1770–1850), Sir Walter
Raleigh (1552?–1618), Thomas Campion (1576–1620), Thomas Heywood (1572–
1650?), Barnaby Barnes (156?–1609), Robert Herrick (1591–1674), Thomas Lynch
(1818–71), Thomas Sternhold (1500–1549), Isaac Williams (1802–65), John Keble
(1792–1866), Henry Vaughan (1622–95), George Herbert (1593–1633), John
Henry Newman (1801–90), William Blake (1757–1827), and Percy Bysshe Shelley
(1792–1822).
16 Frank Howes, The English Musical Renaissance (London, 1966), p. 300. Howes
writes that “Dyson ransacks the poets … to present the theme of man’s earthly
pilgrimage, and in the second part, which was completed ten years after the first, to
find his destiny in ‘the white radiance of eternity.” Christopher Palmer was indebted
to Howes in George Dyson: A Centenary Appreciation (London, 1983), pp. 63–
4, where he [Palmer] repeated Howes’s description (“The theme is that of man’s

earthly pilgrimage, his spiritual odyssey and its consummation in Shelley’s ‘white
radiance of Eternity’”). The focus on Shelley’s penultimate text as the conclusion
of Quo Vadis emphasizes Dyson’s agnosticism. It should not go unnoticed that the
work ends with the words of the Salisbury Diurnal: “from Christ they inherit a
home of unfading splendour, wherein they rejoice with gladness for evermore.”
17 Foreman writes: “Quo Vadis … takes its cue from … one of the sources Dyson
plunders, The Spirit of Man by Robert Bridges.” See Lewis Foreman, Quo Vadis,
liner notes to the CD recording (Chandos 10061 [2], 2003), p. 7. Palmer writes:
“… Dyson sets the same lines from the Salisbury Diurnal as Herbert Howells in the
finale of Hymnus Paradisi, ‘Holy is the true light, and passing wonderful’—which,
like Howells, he found at the end of Robert Bridges’ anthology The Spirit of Man.”
Palmer, George Dyson: A Centenary Appreciation, p. 64. Neither of them offers a
detailed examination of the texts in Bridges’ compilation. Howells himself wrote:
“I searched a long time for a verbal text that would [work for an ending]; and for as
long a time I was baffled. Then my friend Sir Thomas Armstrong found what I had
been looking for … ‘Holy is the true light’ found in the Salisbury Diurnal and again
at the end of Robert Bridges’ The Spirit of Man.” See Christopher Palmer, Herbert
Howells: A Study (Sevenoaks, 1978), p. 66. A first issue copy of The Spirit of Man
rests on the shelves of the RCM Library, but it is impossible to ascertain if Dyson
accessed it.
18 Robert Bridges, The Spirit of Man (London, 1916). New impressions of the
anthology were issued in 1916, 1917, 1918, 1919, 1923, 1925, 1927, 1929, 1930,
1934, 1937, 1939, 1940, 1941, 1942, 1943, 1944, 1946, 1948, and 1973.
19 Ibid. (No pagination is printed but each poem is given a number.) In his introduction
to the 1973 edition, W.H. Auden wrote: “The Spirit of Man was published … in the
middle of World War I. … His primary purpose in compiling it, therefore, was
not so much literary, to give aesthetic pleasure, as ethical, to offer consolation to
hearts in suffering and distress and to strengthen the wills of the dejected … since
the main impact on the reader is intended to be what is said rather than how it
is said, the names of the authors are not, as in most anthologies, included in the
text, but assigned to an appendix. Aside from Classical authors, the Bible, a few
philosophers like Spinoza, mystics like Kabir, and one or two quotes from Tolstoi
and Dostoievski, the only non-English-speaking authors represented are French—
France was our ally at the time—and their contributions are printed in their own
language. There are no selections from German authors, like Goethe or Nietzsche,
[or from] Italian authors, like Dante or Petrarch, either.”
20 Ibid.
21 Ibid.
22 Of some consequence to Dyson’s creativity was his marriage and, for this reason,
it may be compared to those of Elgar and Finzi. Like the former, he married out
of his station, for his wife, Mildred Atkey, by profession a lawyer, came from a
wealthy middle-class family. “The fact that Mildred and her family unquestioningly
accepted George as one of themselves despite the difference in their respective
social standings certainly scotched any residual feelings of inferiority that Dyson”
might have concealed. Palmer, George Dyson: A Centenary Appreciation, p. 20.
Like Finzi, Dyson chose a woman who had “a keen and lively mind” and “was well
read.” Theirs was a creative partnership, though not on the order of the Finzi’s, for
Mildred was later to help Dyson “with the selection and preparation of literary texts
for his works.” Ibid. Their marriage was a very happy one indeed and produced two
children, Alice (b. 1920) and Freeman (b. 1923).
23 Howes, The English Musical Renaissance, p. 300. The author repeated his opinion
in his obituary of the composer: “There are good things in his oratorio Quo vadis?
but his mind was too extravert to be fired by metaphysical poetry to an equivalent
intensity.” See Howes, RCM Magazine, pp. 23–5.
24 Palmer, George Dyson: A Centenary Appreciation, pp. 64–5.
25 The reader is referred to the piano-vocal score published by Novello: “Novello’s
Original Octavo Edition / For the Three Choirs Festivals at Hereford, 1939 and
1949 / QUO VADIS / A Cycle of Poems / Set to Music for / Soprano, Contralto,
Tenor and Bass Soli, / Chorus and Orchestra / by / GEORGE DYSON / London:
Novello and Company, Limited” … 16699 / Nos. 1–5 Copyright, 1939, by Novello
& Company, Limited / Nos. 6–10 Copyright, 1949, by Novello & Company,
Limited.
26 W. McNaught, “Dyson’s ‘Quo Vadis’,” Musical Times (May 1945): 155.
27 Stephen Banfield, “Finzi and Wordsworth,” Finzi Trust Friends Newsletter, 10
(Winter 1992), n.p.; reprinted in Rolf Jordan (ed.), The Clock of the Years (Lichfield,
2007), p. 135.
28 McNaught, “Dyson’s ‘Quo Vadis’,” p. 155.
29 Palmer, George Dyson: A Centenary Appreciation, pp. 66–7.
30 Ibid., p. 66.
32 Noble Numbers is one work in the series for soli voices, chorus, and orchestra
composed by Davies during the early years of the twentieth century, which
includes The Temple (1902), an oratorio, with words selected from the Bible, for
soprano, tenor, and baritone soli, chorus, orchestra, and organ; Everyman (1904/
revised 1934), a cantata founded on the old morality play, for four soli, chorus, and
orchestra; Lift Up Your Hearts (1906), a sacred symphony, with sayings of Jesus,
for bass solo (Harry Plunkett Greene), chorus, and orchestra; Ode on Time (1909/
revised 1936), a poem of Milton, set for baritone, chorus, and orchestra; Songs
of Nature (1908–09), a suite, with texts by Wordsworth, Herrick, T.E. Brown,
and Drayton, for tenor solo, chorus (SSA), flute, horn, piano, and strings; Five
Saying of Jesus (1911), with words, chiefly by Thomas à Kempis, set for tenor solo,
chorus, and orchestra; Song of Saint Francis (1912), a cantata for soli, chorus, and
orchestra; Heaven’s Gate (1917), words from Blake’s “Jerusalem,” set as a cantata
for mezzo-soprano solo, chorus, and small orchestra; Fantasy (1920), founded on
an episode in Dante’s Divina Commedia, for tenor solo, chorus, and orchestra; Men
and Angels (1925), six sacred poems set as a choral suite for chorus, tenor solo,
orchestra, and organ; High Heaven’s King (1926), words from Edmund Spenser and
St. John’s Gospel, set as a church cantata for soprano and baritone soli, chorus, and
orchestra; Christ in the Universe (1929), poem by Alice Meynell, set for soprano
and tenor soli, chorus, piano, and orchestra; and Ah! Gentle May I Lay Me Down
(1934), words from William Blake and Edmund Prys, set as a short cantata for bass
solo, chorus, and strings, with organ ad lib.
33 Palmer, A Centenary Appreciation, p. 25.
34 The reader is referred to the piano-vocal score published by Novello: “Novello’s
Original Octavo Edition. / NOBLE NUMBERS / by Robert Herrick / Together with
Contemporary Poems by /George Herbert, Donne / and an / Anonymous Writer /

Selected and Set to Music / For Solo Voices, Chorus, Violoncello, and Orchestra
/ by H. Walford Davies / (Op. 28) / Written for the Hereford Festival, 1909. / — /
London: Novello and Company, Limited. / New York: The H. W. Gray Co., Sole
Agents for the U.S.A. / Copyright, 1909, by Novello and Company, Limited. / The
Right of Public Representation and Performance is reserved. [p. 1]”
35 H.C. Colles, Walford Davies: A Biography (London, 1942), p. 98.
36 Ibid., p. 96.
37 Ibid., p. 99.
38 Dyson developed the habit of having his manuscripts of each year bound up
together as a Christmas present for his surrogate mother, Mrs. Matheson, with
an affectionate greeting to M.G.M. “from her loving composer.” Thus there is an
unbroken succession of annual volumes for thirty years given to the RCM Library.
These are listed in the Additions to the Catalogue of Manuscripts as: “Mss 6300–
6749 Manuscripts of Henry Walford Davies, placed on deposit by John Wilson
and presented after his death in 1992 by his estate.” Of pertinence to this study are
the autographs to Noble Numbers. 6328 Volume 27. Autograph. 1909. (1) “Noble
Numbers, [words] by Robert Herrick. First attempt. Contains settings in vocal
score of Upon time and His Litanie to the Holy Spirit (the former omitted from the
completed work).” (2) “Noble Numbers, op. 28, [words] by Herrick, Herbert and
others. Vocal score.” (N.B. There are thirteen additional items, numbered 3–15, in
this volume.) Notes on (2): Foliated by RCM from fol. 5 to fol. 105. Davies paginates
1–20, repeats 20, 20–28; at “How should I praise thee” starts again with page 1; so,
1–27; there is no 28; 29–49; “Open thy gates” begins with page 28; so, 28–41; there
is a 41a; then 42–51. The manuscript paper has writing on the recto side. Davies
uses 12-stave or 20-stave paper. So, fols 8–13 are written on 12-stave paper, as are
fols 26 (not numbered), 27–29 and 32, 41–43, 47–57, 60–62, 73–74, and 84–91.
The calligraphy is extremely messy throughout, ranging from large, wild gestures
to smaller, more precise gestures. It is written in black ink with annotations and
rehearsal numbers in pencil. All of the manuscripts are uniformly bound in boards
(hard cover) and covered with a marbled material (blue-ish in color) with spine and
corners in white (faded in color) and with gold lettering (the year on the spine and
in the upper right-hand corner M.G.M., which stands for Marie G. Matheson). They
are about 10 × 13 inches in size. The pages are edged in gold leaf. There are many
corrections and paste-overs. On the frontispiece is written: “To Marie G. Matheson
/ Ever with the love / of her composer / H.W.D. / Christmas Day, 1909.” 6329
Volume 28. Autograph. 1909. Noble Numbers, by Herrick, Herbert and others, op.
28. Full score, with vocal parts added in another hand and incorporating printed
proof parts of nos. 4 and 15. Notes. Autograph full score written in black ink on the
recto and verso sides of the 24-stave manuscript paper. There are 105 pages plus the
incorporated printed proofs of nos 4 and 15. There are fewer annotations than in the
above. On the frontispiece is written: “Marie G. Matheson / from her ever loving /
composer / H.W.D.”
39 Dyson, Fiddling while Rome Burns, pp. 99–100.
40 Dyson, in Palmer, Dyson’s Delight, p. 16.
Chapter 12
George Dyson’s Nebuchadnezzar and the
Stimulus of Parry, Stanford, and Walton
The days are gone when a composer could develop his own technique and
personality throughout a long life and in comparative isolation, as many of the
great composers of the past did. Today his music has to bear incessant comparison
with every past masterpiece and every present fashion. He must display some
degree of novelty to be heard at all. And he is therefore encouraged to find new and
ingenious methods of expression rather than to concentrate on his own natural and
spontaneous intuitions. (George Dyson)1
Compositional Influences
When writing these words in 1948, Dyson might have been thinking of his own
oratorio Nebuchadnezzar, a commission for the 1935 Three Choirs Festival at
Worcester, which followed Walton’s Belshazzar’s Feast, premiered at the 1931
Leeds Festival. Because of their textual matter and the proximity of their creation,
the works were destined for juxtaposition, which began immediately and continued
over the years. Two recent statements will serve as examples. “In selecting [the]
story for choral treatment,” Foreman wrote, “Dyson was immediately inviting
comparison with Walton’s Belshazzar’s Feast”2 and his biographer Palmer
inscribed, “I suspect that many people look at the title and automatically assume
a kind of poor man’s Belshazzar’s Feast.”3 It was Foreman’s conclusion that
“[Dyson] was keen to emulate Walton, not in musical technique, but in dramatic
impact and compactness,”4 whereas Palmer continued with “there is nothing ‘poor’
about Nebuchadnezzar; … apart from their source of libretto, … the two works
have practically nothing in common.”5 Foreman offered additional information:
“Stanford had composed a long oratorio on the same topic, called The Three Holy
Children. … Whether Dyson was familiar with it is not known, but if he was, he
may have considered it an example of how not to proceed.”6 However, Palmer
categorized Nebuchadnezzar with this older tradition of oratorio, “exemplified
by Parry’s Job, Judith and King Saul,”7 which he thought Dyson attempted to
revive (“a successful if isolated attempt” is his phrase), and cited Stanford’s work:
“Presumably Dyson was acquainted with Stanford’s 1885 oratorio The Three Holy
Children, which treats of the same story. He [Stanford] starts (like Walton) with ‘By
the waters of Babylon’ and ends (like Dyson and Britten) with the ‘Benedicte’.”8
In fact, Dyson’s Nebuchadnezzar was influenced by Parry, Stanford, and Walton,
and features elements that are a response to those in Job, The Three Holy Children,
and Belshazzar’s Feast, as will be seen below.
That Dyson might turn to Job as a possible model for Nebuchadnezzar is
understandable, for the work was authored by one of his mentors, whom he very
much revered, and Job embodies Parry’s attempt to create a new choral-orchestral
form to supplant the nineteenth-century oratorio (pace Palmer). Indeed, Job is
designed in a novel manner. Organized compactly and lasting about an hour, it is in
four interdependent scenes, rather than the two acts of the much longer traditional
oratorio of the day, and consolidated by recurring thematic material: for example,
the introduction features a unifying orchestral statement with a spacious diatonic C
major contour, pedal point and sumptuous instrumentation that concludes scenes 1
and 4; and, in a transformed version, it appears at the end of the first choral episode
in scene 2 (“The song of the shepherd has ceased”), then becomes the material for
Job’s affirmation of faith and subsequent references in scene 3 (“I will say unto
God”) and scene 4 (“Who shut up the sea with doors”). The soloists (Job/bass-
baritone, Satan/tenor, Shepherd Boy/boy treble, and Narrator/bass) and chorus are
employed in a different and imaginative fashion: for example, the personification
of God by a male chorus in scene 1, the unusual and protracted lamentation of Job
scena in scene 3, and, representing God in the whirlwind, the extended symphonic
chorus (in six large architectural structures) in scene 4. And, due to the elimination
of the separation between recitative, arias, and choruses, as well as the recurring
thematic material, there is a symphonic coherence and impetus that had not been
attempted previously by an English composer. It was a daring experiment. Dyson
would have found appealing, too, Parry’s choice of text, based on human emotions
and passions, and his ability to retain credibility in the narrative while deleting a
certain amount of material and including some of his own words. Lastly, there
were ample opportunities for Dyson to hear the music and study the score, for
after the many performances following its premiere at Gloucester in 1892 – for
example, Worcester (1893), Hereford (1894), Cardiff, Hereford, Leeds, Liverpool
(1894), Birmingham (1897), Gloucester (1901), Oxford (1908), Hereford (1909)
– the work was heard in London (at the Royal College of Music (RCM) in 1925),
Gloucester (1925), and Dorking (1929).9
Foreman’s presumption that Dyson had attempted to emulate Walton is correct,
for Nebuchadnezzar possesses some of the dramatic impact and conciseness
of Belshazzar’s Feast. These attributes are created by a sequence of elements –
plastic motifs, complex textures, contrast and variety, intentional silences – that
in the latter work unfold in a tightly controlled tripartite form lasting about thirty-
four minutes. For example, the first section consists of the opening repeated-note
trombone call that introduces the unaccompanied men’s voices, in dissonant
choral writing, announcing Isaiah’s prophecy, which is followed by a brooding
ascending motif in the lower strings, prefacing the expressive setting, with the
addition of women’s voices, of Psalm 137 (“By the waters of Babylon”). Then
there is a sudden shift to fast music propelled by an insistent brass motif, succeeded
by the baritone soloist, proclaiming “How can I forget thee, O Jerusalem” and
Dyson’s Nebuchadnezzar & the Stimulus of Parry, Stanford, & Walton 289
accompanied by the initial brooding string motif. This is followed by a great

choral eruption that returns to the weeping of “By the waters” together with a
resounding orchestral accompaniment, after which the fast music reappears as the
chorus vigorously sings “O daughter of Babylon” and the insistent rhythm of the
first quick passage recurs. Finally, the section is closed by the weeping voices
and initial brooding motif. But who could forget the subsequent moments: the
baritone’s declamation of the wealth of Babylon, until the feast and the praising
of the false gods; the writing on the wall, eerily depicted, and Belshazzar’s death
proclaimed with the mighty shout of “slain!”; and the final magnificent hymn
of jubilation with the sublime Alleluia section? Dyson must have reacted with
astonishment to Belshazzar’s Feast, as did other listeners, who were thrilled by
the performances at Leeds (1931), London (1931 and 1934), Manchester (1932),
Nottingham (1932), and Amsterdam (1933).10
Perhaps the tumultuous success of Walton’s work caused Dyson to remember
and re-examine Stanford’s oratorio, The Three Holy Children, of 1885, when
searching for a similar and suitable subject to set. For Belshazzar’s Feast begins
with much the same text that Stanford used: lines from Psalm 137 (“By the waters
of Babylon we sat down and wept”) with additional lines from Psalms 74 and 79;
and to these Stanford added Psalm 102 and chapter 4 of Baruch to complete Part
I of his work. Nebuchadnezzar begins in similar fashion to Part II of Stanford’s
oratorio, though in the Dyson setting there is almost no excision of text, which
presents the story in chapter 3 of Daniel, the Prayer of Azarias, and the Song of the
Three Holy Children, combined with Psalm 148. In Stanford’s Part I, the “lament”
and “march” style choruses are an important structural feature, whereas in Part II
the semi-chorus (to the accompaniment of the angel) and the solos of the Herald
and Azarias (“Blessed art thou, O Lord God of our fathers”) are more noticeable.
In summary, The Three Holy Children is an attractive and clever work, though
it conformed to the imperatives of Birmingham’s aesthetic predilections, which
made Stanford’s reputation as a composer of large-scale choral music through
the performances in Birmingham (1885, August and October), Wolverhampton
(1886), Manchester (1886), and London (1886).11 Dyson might have been aware
of the new piano-vocal score published in 1902 but, certainly, it can be assumed
that he would have known the compositions of his teacher, Stanford, from whom
he received tuition (1900–1904) at the RCM.
Nebuchadnezzar: Form and Content
Freeman Dyson provided an indelible portrait of his father at work on the creation
of Nebuchadnezzar that is worth recalling. “Every morning for three hours he
composed,” Freeman remembered, “first sitting at the piano to try out the tunes
and then sitting at his desk to write them down. At the piano he would play as
much as he could of the orchestral parts and sing as much as he could of the
voices.” It is easy to imagine the Dyson we see in photographs – dapper with
his bow-tie, stubby moustache, and center parting – following this strict school-
holiday routine. At any rate, Freeman confessed that he “loved to listen to him
playing and singing, totally absorbed in the marriage of music and words that was
his special gift. I can still hear him singing with quiet ferocity the spiteful words
of the Chaldeans, ‘There are certain Jews’, and then with quiet serenity the slow
crescendo of the Benedicte.”12 The result was an engaging and vivid score.
Nebuchadnezzar is in four interdependent movements (imitating the outer
design of Job), utilizing the compositional ingredients of choral part-writing,
solo narration (Herald/tenor and Nebuchadnezzar/bass), and motif (more akin to
Belshazzar’s Feast), and lasts about forty-seven minutes.13 The work opens with
a plastic orchestral motif (a), arresting and bold, to announce the manufacture of
an image of gold by the King; later the motif is associated with the image itself
(Example 12.1). A derivative of the motif (b) depicts the King’s intent to gather
together the people to offer homage; this is executed three times before a version
of the initial motif (a) recurs. Already Walton’s score is recalled in the drama of
the opening choral-orchestral statements; their progression in blocks of sound; the
silences occurring between them and throughout the work; and, more specifically,
the brooding orchestral music (at rehearsal number 1) before the recurrence of
the first motif (a) (Example 12.2), which seems to imitate that theme prefacing
Walton’s setting of Psalm 137 (at 1).
The episode (from rehearsal numbers 2–4) about the assembling of the
“Satraps, the deputies, and the governors, the judges, the treasurers” centers on the
ascending motif (b). The towering image, set up, is represented (at 4) by a majestic
orchestral motif, euphonious and harmonically rich (Example 12.3), which
recurs at the end of scene 2 (at 33) after the answer of the three holy children,
whereas the people standing before the gigantic image are portrayed (at 7) by a
descending orchestral motif (with punctuations of brass), a derivative of which
is employed, in scene 3, for the descent of the angel of the Lord (at 43/4). The
trombone call prefacing the herald’s declaration of the King’s decree (before 8) is
taken from the initial motif (a), as is the herald’s melodic flourish (see 9) on the
words “golden image.” The tenors and basses catalogue the musical instruments in
plodding chords (reminiscent of the plodding rhythm of Walton at 10), while the
sopranos and altos thread in repetitions of motif b. The plodding chords and motif
b underscore the acquiescence of the people (at 12) and their worship of the golden
image, using a polyphonic excrescence of the herald’s flourish.
The second movement, agitated initially, presents the accusation against the
Jews Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego by the Chaldeans, who are represented by
a men’s chorus: that is, two- and three-part writing for baritones (or second tenors)
and first and second basses. Here, Dyson may have been influenced by scene 1 of
Job (from F), where Parry makes extensive use of the male chorus, though in a
different fashion, as well as by Walton, who scores his opening prophecy for men’s
voices alone, though Dyson’s setting is infused with energy, sweep, and barbaric
excitement. Nebuchadnezzar’s outburst to bring forth the three holy children is
delivered (at 24) by sopranos and altos using a version of the opening material,
Example 12.1 Nebuchadnezzar by George Dyson, motif a (vocal score;

Novello, 1935), p. 1
Example 12.2 Nebuchadnezzar by George Dyson, brooding orchestral theme

(vocal score; Novello, 1935), rehearsal number 1/1–7, pp. 2–3
Example 12.3 Nebuchadnezzar by George Dyson, majestic orchestral motif

(“the towering image”) (vocal score; Novello, 1935), rehearsal
number 4/1–4, p. 6
while the King’s directive (at 25) to the culprits is prefaced by a derivative of the
brooding orchestral motif (see 1) and motif b. The sinister cast of this episode is
due to the disposition of the low wind instruments and the plodding rhythm of the
bass strings, the latter of which continues through the calm answer of Shadrach,
Meshach, and Abednego: “we will not serve thy gods, nor worship the golden
image which thou hast set up.”
The third movement focuses on the King, “full of fury,” ordering the furnace
to be heated “seven times more than it was wont to be heated” and to cast
Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego into it. The introduction, labeled “Restless,”
is made up of compositional material based on the trombone flourish in the first
movement, which appears twice before the entrance of the full chorus. The fire
music for orchestra alone (at 38), a fusion of motifs a and b, is slow, muscular,
and dynamically overwhelming in contrast to the quiet terror of the preceding
fast choral section. The subsequent paragraphs describe the destruction of the
bystanders and the calling forth of the three holy children. The choral fugue (B/T/
A/S), on the text “And the King’s servants, that put them in, ceased not to make the
furnace hot with naphtha, pitch, tow, and small wood,” is buttressed by a powerful
orchestral part that progresses to the destruction of the Chaldeans. Suddenly (at
43), there is a change of key (to E@), time (³½), tempo (very broadly), and style;
a shimmering orchestral setting based on motif b and the descending orchestral
gesture of 7 accompanies the text, “But the angel of the Lord came down and
smote the flame of the fire out of the furnace; and made the midst of the furnace
as it had been a moist whistling wind, so that the fire touched them not at all.”
This extended passage segues into another one (E mode, ²½, serene but not too
slow) for a semi-chorus, “Blessed art Thou, O Lord, thou God of our fathers,”
for first and second soprano, alto, and tenor (Dyson’s preference is “a few voices
to each part, and at a distance, if convenient”), accompanied by strings and harp.
The final sections of movement III, treating the King’s astonishment and decree,
impressively conclude the drama of the story with references to previously used
compositional material.
Proceeding without break, the fourth movement, marked “Quiet and
devotional,” is a radiant hymn of praise. It is based on a simple theme, stated
initially by the bass soloist (“O all ye works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord”),
then continued by the tenor soloist and chorus which, through many repetitions
and imbrications, forms the edifice of a grandiloquent construct, giving a spiritual
dimension to the dramatic narrative. For this reason, it is unlike Walton’s final
pages, which is a pagan shout of triumph, and rather more like Stanford’s
culminating movement, a neo-Handelian double chorus reinterpreted, of course,
through the filter of Dyson’s aesthetic and personality.
An Engaging and Vivid Work
Freeman Dyson’s vignette of his father at work paints a composer in the process
of creating his music – playing his ideas at the piano and then committing them to
paper – and an examination of the autograph materials of Nebuchadnezzar could
reveal invaluable information about it and his methods. Did Dyson approach the
compositional act as did Parry, Stanford, and Walton? In the case of Parry, there is
so much autograph material that we know how he combined sketches and rough
drafts in the genesis of a specific work; and how he created a draft full score,
written in graphite, which was then developed into a full score proper, notated in
black ink, with any revisional passes added in red ink and blue pencil. Such is the
state of the autograph full score of Job, which, to cite one instance, shows that
the Andante sostenuto in scene 2 (Job’s “affirmation of faith”) originally began
with a two-measure introduction on a descending motif; however, Parry replaced
this passage with a more repetitive motif retained in the published version.14 For
Walton, the process of composition was an arduous and complicated task, too, and
his final products were subject to revision (like Parry) before and after publication,
as can be seen with Belshazzar’s Feast. Though the autograph full score has gone
missing, the autograph short score exhibits part of Walton’s revision of the brass
and organ parts to the final measures of the work, while the final two folios of the
copyist’s full score from the United States show the original version of the last
measures before any revision occurred, as well as a fuller orchestration of “While
the Kings of the Earth.”15 Conversely, Stanford wrote straight into score with a
minimum of emendations to produce relatively clean and uncluttered manuscripts,
with an exception being The Three Holy Children. In that respect, Dyson seems to
have been more like Stanford, for he left no sketches and the autograph full score
manuscripts are pristine; thus our view of Nebuchadnezzar and of the composer
at work rests on the published score and on Freeman’s memories, unless other
materials and information are forthcoming.16
When writing Nebuchadnezzar, Dyson was influenced by Parry, Stanford, and
Walton. Foreman’s statement that Dyson attempted to emulate Walton is apparent,
whereas Palmer’s observation that there is “nothing in common” between Dyson’s
work and that of Walton, “apart from their source of libretto,” is simply inaccurate,
for there are obvious parallels between them. Juxtaposition of the two works was
inevitable in view of Walton’s sensational success and it is reasonable to believe
that Dyson was inviting such comparison rather than attempting to revive an older
form of oratorio, as Palmer suggests. Yet Nebuchadnezzar is indebted to Job, the
progenitor of new explorations in oratorio, with its motifs and four-scene design,
and to The Three Holy Children, more original than the perfunctory and moribund
two-movement specimens of the period, with its viable text, dramatic and exciting.
But it is Belshazzar’s Feast, the landmark masterpiece, with its dramatic intensity
and revolutionary orchestral effects, that it most resembles. Dyson’s admiration
for it and the composer resides in his contribution to Henry Hadow’s Music, the
third edition of which he revised in 1948. He wrote:
There is no parallel in our history to [the] immediate and worldwide acceptance

of an English composer whose consistent and uncompromising quality is the
expression of highly original gifts in a style of unusual force and certainty,
imitating no one, neither of his own nor any other period. Walton did not,
of course, rise from a vacuum. He was subject to all the experimental and
reforming influences of his time. … He can be exceptionally vehement, and he
has created a new standard in the actual volume of sound that a given number
of instruments can produce. He writes to the limits of technique, both of players
and singers. But he can be also intimately and delicately poetical, and he has
a gift of humour, witty or sardonic. His harmonic foundations are ultimately
classical, as is his sense of proportion and architecture, but he concentrates his
idiom and expresses it with a force beyond that of any contemporary. And this
is just as true in a lyric weaving of melodies as in the excitement of a dramatic

climax.17
Dyson’s response to Belshazzar’s Feast produced a highly personal work that is

ambitious, vital, and memorable.
Notes
1 George Dyson, “The First Half of the Twentieth Century,” in Henry Hadow, Music
(Oxford, 1949), p. 150.
2 Lewis Foreman, liner notes to the CD recording of Nebuchadnezzar (Chandos
10439, 2007), p. 9.
3 Christopher Palmer, George Dyson: A Centenary Appreciation (London, 1983), p.
62.
4 Foreman, liner notes to Nebuchadnezzar, p. 9.
5 Palmer, p. 62.
6 Foreman, liner notes to Nebuchadnezzar, p. 9.
7 Palmer, p. 62.
8 Ibid., and footnote 22.
9 Information taken from Jeremy Dibble, C. Hubert H. Parry: His Life and Music
(Oxford, 1992), pp. 300–301 passim; the liner notes by Dibble to the CD recording
of Job (Hyperion CDA67025); and Anthony Boden, Three Choirs: A History of the
Festival (Gloucestershire, 1992), p. 274.
10 Information taken from Frank Howes, The Music of William Walton, 2nd ed.
(Oxford, 1974), p. 161 passim; Michael Kennedy, Portrait of Walton (Oxford,
1989), p. 53 passim; Stephen Lloyd, William Walton: Muse of Fire (Woodbridge,
2001), p. 88 passim; Lewis Foreman, “Walton’s Words,” in Stewart R. Craggs
(ed.), William Walton: Music and Literature (Aldershot, 1999), p. 228 passim; and
Steuart Bedford, Belshazzar’s Feast, vol. 4 in the William Walton Edition (Oxford,
2007), p. v passim.
11 Jeremy Dibble, Charles Villiers Stanford: Man and Musician (Oxford, 2002), pp.
164–8 passim.
12 Foreman, liner notes to Nebuchadnezzar.
13 The reader is referred to the vocal scores of Nebuchadnezzar (Novello, 1935) and
Belshazzar’s Feast (Oxford, revised edition, 1955).
14 Michael Allis, Parry’s Creative Process (Aldershot, 2003), pp. 130–32 passim.
15 Bedford, p. v passim. The location of the autograph full score, formerly in the hire
library of Oxford University Press, is unknown. The autograph short score of new
brass and organ parts is housed at the William Walton Museum, Ischia. There are
three unrevised orchestral scores deposited in the Oxford University Press Archive:
a copyist’s score used by Malcolm Sargent (the earliest), a copyist’s score used by
Constant Lambert, and a copyist’s score from the United States. An additional three
scores—that is, conducting scores—reside at the William Walton Museum, Ischia:
a first edition study score, a second edition study score (with a Rembrandt cover),
and a copy of the Roy Douglas full score. In the absence of the autograph full score,
the Roy Douglas 1948 copy of the revised version became the basis for the first
Oxford University Press publication of 1957.
16 Many of the Dyson manuscripts were presented to the RCM by M.L. Dyson in July
1964. A second group, the Novello Collection, consists of manuscripts, mainly in
full score and mainly of works published by the firm of Novello, which came into
the possession of the College in 1964. See J. Dibble, “The RCM Novello Library,”
Musical Times, 124 (February 1983): 99–101. A third group was a gift of the Oxford
University Press Hire Library.
17 Dyson, pp. 177–8.
Afterword
The concerns of this book have been primarily those of historical critique. How
Parry, Stanford, Vaughan Williams, Finzi, Rubbra, and Dyson are linked by place,
education, and idiom; why they wrote choral-orchestral music and, specifically,
the examples chosen here for discussion; why these composers were attracted
to their texts, how they understood the texts, and to what purpose they were
quoting the texts by setting them to music; how well they succeeded in conveying
their compositional designs; how these utterances contributed to their stylistic
development and where they can be placed in the output of the composers—these
are questions that are repeatedly considered throughout this study.
All of the composers were associated with the Royal College of Music (RCM)
in London: that is, they were involved in its foundation and continuation as
directors (Parry, 1895–1918 and Dyson, 1937–52) and professors (Parry, from
1883, of history and composition; Stanford, from 1883, of composition and
orchestra; Vaughan Williams, from 1919, of composition; and Dyson, from 1921,
of composition and theoretical subjects) or were its products as a result of tuition
received from its faculty (Vaughan Williams studied with Parry and Stanford in
1890–92 and 1895–97, respectively; Finzi never attended the RCM but was a
private pupil of R.O. Morris in 1925; Rubbra was instructed by Holst in 1921–
25; and Dyson was trained by Stanford in 1900–04). From the RCM emanated
what ultimately became known as the English Musical Renaissance, a movement
academic, urban, and national in character and ideology. Its agenda was to
establish a creative English school of composition comparable with those of other
countries, the exemplar being Germany with its tradition of art music, composers,
universal elementary instruction, and conservatories that created a thoroughly
musical people. Parry and Stanford were the architects of this movement and,
thus, dominated British music of the late nineteenth century through their prolific
compositions, brilliant didacticism, superb performance, and erudite scholarship,
and of the twentieth century through the achievements of their pupils.
Each of these composers wrote a great deal of music in the continental idiom
of the time. An intellectual and revolutionary, Parry composed in a language that
in structure and morphology was grounded initially in the style of Beethoven,
Schumann, and Brahms (whereas later he absorbed the music of Liszt and Wagner)
and presented in novel forms. Less cerebral and metaphysical, Stanford’s mode
of expression was predicated, too, on a musical discourse that was Germanic in
essence (he preferred Mendelssohn and Brahms to Liszt and Wagner), notably
polished and refined, and framed in structures of classical equilibrium. Stanford’s
technical competence and impeccable craftsmanship, and Parry’s moral precept
to address one’s own countrymen in elevating tones and in a diatonic style
(“Write choral music as befits an Englishman and a democrat”), were claimed and
maintained by their successors.
Vaughan Williams established his compositional voice through the assimilation
of vernacular material (folk-song) and historical music (Tudor polyphony) or,
rather, through the interaction and confrontation of common-practice tonality with
modality and pentatonicism. Though Parry’s and Stanford’s tenets of organicism
and intellectualism continued to be germane to his technique, this admixture of
melodic and harmonic modality with polyphonic procedures made his music
inimitably national yet universal. Finzi’s musical dialect was an amalgam of Parry
(diatonic appoggiaturas and falling sevenths), Vaughan Williams (the polyphonic
textures, folkloric melodies, and modal-diatonic harmony), and R.O. Morris (a
baroque orientation, one element of which was the false relation, the apex of
Finzi’s chromatic repertoire). Rubbra was influenced by Vaughan Williams, but
his music also reflected the pedagogy of Holst (internal pedals, ostinati, and fugal
writing) and R.O. Morris (contrapuntal writing, which became the decisive factor
in Rubbra’s compositional method), and it possessed, in the main, a meditative
rather than dramatic posture. Finally, Dyson’s idiom was gleaned from Parry
(the techniques of choral exposition) and Stanford (the cleanliness of thought,
directness of aim, and economy of expression), and it unfolded within a diatonic
framework enriched by chromatic discords (not unlike those of Delius) and
modality (similar to Vaughan Williams).
Critics considered their musical idioms to be unviable (Parry and Stanford),
conservative, insular or retrospective (Vaughan Williams et alia), as opposed
to the Franco-Russian or Viennese schools of the time, but the approach of the
composers to compositional design was not. At the beginning of the English
Musical Renaissance, as it had been throughout the nineteenth century, the primary
genre was the large-scale, choral-orchestral essay, due to the strength of the English
choral festival tradition as represented by the five triennial institutions: that is,
the Three Choirs Festival (held cyclically at Worcester, Gloucester, and Hereford)
dating from as early as 1724, Birmingham (1768), Norfolk and Norwich (1824),
Leeds (1858), and the Handel Festival of London (1859). In order to gain necessary
hearings and influence as composers, Parry and Stanford produced works for these
festivals; however, because the institutions cultivated the outmoded repertoire of
Handelian and Mendelssohnian oratorios, they searched for innovative constructs
in which to enclose their musical ideas, examples of which are the former’s The
Vision of Life (1907/revised 1914), the fifth work in his series of experimental
moral cantatas, and the latter’s Elegiac Ode, Op. 21 (1884).
Both of these compositions were models for Vaughan Williams’s A Sea
Symphony (1910). The hybrid nature of Parry’s work, subtitled “A Symphonic
Poem” (though in one, through-composed movement), and its visionary aspiration-
exploration metaphor are clearly seen in Vaughan Williams’s choral symphony
(the latter meant his work as a metaphysical statement no less than the former).
Moreover, Parry’s own words pointed to the humanistic ethos of Walt Whitman,
the texts of which were utilized by Stanford in his ode, cast in a four-movement
Afterword 301
pattern (perhaps with symphony connotations), and by Vaughan Williams in his

Whitman symphony.
Yet Vaughan Williams never made another choral statement on the grand scale of
A Sea Symphony, turning to smaller choral-orchestral essays that applied the hybrid
approach of Parry in ever new ways. In Flos Campi (1925), Vaughan Williams
reinterpreted the genres (cantata, concerto, and suite are fused, choral expression and
verbal communication are separated) and his ingredients (biblical, erotic, oriental,
pastoral, and primitive)—it is in the application of Latin quotations to each of the six
movements that one sees an oblique reference to Parry’s Voces Clamantium (1903),
in six episodes, each headed with a Latin superscription—whereas in the Eden-like
beauty of An Oxford Elegy (1949), Vaughan Williams repeated his use of the text-
less chorus (with but six exceptions) and ravishing orchestration, combining them
with the words of Matthew Arnold narrated by a speaker.
The latter composition may be grouped with those single-poet works of
other composers who wished to be associated with the philosophies and texts of
specific lyricists, namely Finzi’s Intimations of Immortality (1936?–38/1949–50)
and Rubbra’s The Morning Watch (1941), to the words of William Wordsworth
and Henry Vaughan, respectively. In essence, these were testimonies of personal
identification. Finzi and Vaughan Williams were heavily criticized for their
impertinence in setting such great poetry, yet they along with Rubbra produced
masterpieces that undoubtedly will stand as the definitive readings of these poems
for the foreseeable future.
The choral symphony survived well into the twentieth century, the most
notable example of which is Rubbra’s Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra (1972),
genuinely symphonic as well as oratorical. Stemming from the models of Bach,
Mendelssohn, and Parry, especially Beyond These Voices There Is Peace (1908),
it is a radiant and profoundly impressive contribution by a composer who wrote
many smaller choral pieces.
None of the latter-day composers, however, attempted to write an oratorio
along the lines of Stanford’s The Three Holy Children (1885/revised 1902), more
original than the superficial and defunct two-movement specimens of his period,
though Dyson drew on its precedence in Nebuchadnezzar (1935), more so on
Parry’s Job (1892), with its motifs and four-scene plan, and Walton’s Belshazzar’s
Feast (1931), to create his engaging and dramatic work. Dyson’s largest choral-
orchestral utterance and his magnum opus, Quo Vadis (1937–48), remained
unperformed until after World War Two. It may be categorized with Finzi’s
smaller, intimate, and posthumously published Requiem da Camera (1923–25) in
that both adopt the method of the anthology to draw on the texts of various poets.
The imperatives of the fin-de-siècle festival choral tradition heavily influenced
the textual choices of the composers and, thus, the early works made use of biblical
words (Parry’s Voces Clamantium and Beyond These Voices There Is Peace;
Stanford’s The Three Holy Children) or, alternatively and contradistinctively, were
a setting of Walt Whitman (Stanford’s Elegiac Ode). With the gradual decline of
the festival tradition, an inner desire of the composers became the compelling
reason for the selection of a text. The words of the Bible continued to be
extrapolated: to suggest a program (Vaughan William’s Flos Campi), for dramatic
verisimilitude (Dyson’s Nebuchadnezzar), or because of personal conviction
(Rubbra’s Symphony No. 9). Other works apostrophized a pastoral landscape
(Finzi’s Requiem da Camera; Vaughan Williams’s An Oxford Elegy; Rubbra’s The
Morning Watch) or reflected a metaphysical/visionary theme (Parry’s A Vision
of Life; Finzi’s Intimations of Immortality; again Rubbra’s The Morning Watch;
Dyson’s Quo Vadis).
The texts of the works were treated similarly by the composers, for words,
lines or verses were omitted (Parry’s Voces Clamantium and Beyond These Voices
There Is Peace; Vaughan Williams’s An Oxford Elegy; Finzi’s Intimations of
Immortality; Dyson’s Quo Vadis), left nearly intact (Stanford’s The Three Holy
Children, in its original version; Dyson’s Nebuchadnezzar), or augmented (Parry’s
Voces Clamantium culminates with words of his own devising and Rubbra’s
Symphony No. 9 interpolates Bach chorales) to suit their compositional purposes.
The adaptation of words meant to be read or intoned for vocal settings led one
composer, Parry, to bypass this task by creating his own literary text—an ethical
apologia—which he used in his musical work of the same name, The Vision of Life.
The choral-orchestral works discussed herein were selected, in large part,
because of what their holographs revealed; indeed, as mentioned in the Preface,
running throughout my narrative are questions regarding the interpretation of the
autograph material (from the full scores of Parry and Stanford to the sketches
and fair copies of Vaughan Williams and Rubbra) and how knowledge gained
from their investigation strengthens our comprehension of the composers’ music.
Glimpses of the creative personalities and working habits of the composers were
obtained by scrutinizing their revisions large-scale—as in Parry’s The Vision
of Life (a new ending authored on the advice of Elgar himself), Stanford’s The
Three Holy Children (a second, more concise version), and Finzi’s Requiem da
Camera (a reconsidered third movement)—and small-scale—as, for example,
in Parry’s Voces Clamantium and Vaughan Williams’s Flos Campi (emendated
notes, measures, and passages). The holographs of auxiliary composers (Walford
Davies and William Walton) were inspected for their affinity with the unavailable
manuscripts of Dyson—Quo Vadis and Nebuchadnezzar (however, his extant
autographs were accessed for corroborative evidence)—as were the published
scores of exact or similar texts (the Henry Vaughan settings of Arnold Bax and
Gustav Holst). Amplifying this information were the comments of the composers,
or those close to them, gleaned from the secondary literature about the manner in
which they composed (see the chapters on Vaughan Williams’s Flos Campi, Finzi’s
Requiem da Camera, Rubbra’s Symphony No. 9, and Dyson’s Nebuchadnezzar).
The creative process varied from composer to composer. It was stimulated
by the methodical study of models historical—as in Parry’s three works (their
beginnings are the seventeenth-century German compositions of Schütz) and
Rubbra’s Symphony No. 9 (Bach, Mendelssohn, and Parry)—or contemporary—
as in Dyson’s Nebuchadnezzar (Parry, Stanford, and Walton) and Finzi’s Requiem
Afterword 303
da Camera (Vaughan Williams). Stanford’s pieces were largely conceived and

imagined before being committed to paper—due to his compositional facility at
the keyboard, he was able to write straight into score—whereas the music of the
other composers emerged in stages through the careful elaboration, organization,
and working out of their musical ideas. Notwithstanding that the genesis of
two works stretched over an inordinate number of years (Finzi’s Intimations
of Immortality and Rubbra’s Symphony No. 9), most were completed within a
shorter span. In one instance (Finzi’s Requiem da Camera), the compositional
order of the formal sections was different from the final version (the third
movement was composed first).
The inspiration for some of the works was a commission, as mentioned
previously, whereas for others the cause was another impetus. For example,
Vaughan Williams’s An Oxford Elegy and Finzi’s Intimations of Immortality
referenced the former’s early, forgotten, and unpublished Harnham Down, and
their inter-textual relationships are particularly arresting. Vaughan Williams’s
Flos Campi—specifying a solo viola, small choral ensemble (wordless and used
in an instrumental fashion), and chamber orchestra—was a vehicle for innovative
sound-configurations in a manner in which the other works were not (that is, sound
qua sound is its essential parameter), even though each had its own aural world:
from Vaughan Williams’s An Oxford Elegy (for speaker, small almost text-less
chorus, and chamber orchestra) and Finzi’s Requiem da Camera (for baritone
soloist, SATB choral soloists or chamber choir ad libitum, and small orchestra) to
Parry’s Voces Clamantium, The Vision of Life, and Beyond These Voices There Is
Peace, Stanford’s Elegiac Ode, Rubbra’s The Morning Watch, and Dyson’s Quo
Vadis (for the routine complement of soloists—soprano and baritone, soprano,
contralto and baritone, or a quartet of soloists, as the case may be—excluding
the Rubbra, which has none; SATB chorus, plus semi-chorus in the Dyson; and
normal or large orchestra), or from Stanford’s The Three Holy Children and
Dyson’s Nebuchadnezzar (for soprano, tenor, and bass soloists in the former, and
tenor and bass soloists in the latter; men’s trio, semi-chorus, and SATB chorus;
and, again, normal or large orchestra) to Finzi’s Intimations of Immortality and
Rubbra’s Symphony No. 9 (for tenor soloist in the former, and soprano, contralto,
and bass soloists in the latter, the contralto having a brief speaking part; SATB
chorus; and expanded orchestra, most notably a large percussion battery).
Clearly, these works honored the long tradition of English choral music to
which the composers contributed numerous examples, most of them unclassifiable
according to normal definitions. Inasmuch as it is the purpose of scholars to
interpret and reinterpret the artifacts of the past, we may ask, as Parry did in his
Studies of Great Composers, what any musical works represent artistically: “Do
they open up any new vista? Do they show mastery of any new resource? Do they
put things in a light never thought of before?” When applied to our selections,
the answer to each question is yes. Therefore they are worthy of contemplation
and explication. Though some would debate their ultimate status, others might
agree with Parry, whom I quote: “The greatest [works] are not those [which]
merely entertain us and make us for a while forget boredom and worry in trivial
distraction; but such as sound the deepest chords in our nature and lift us above
ourselves; [which] purify and brace us in times of gladness, and strike no jarring
note in the time of our deepest sorrow.”1
Notes
1 Hubert Parry, Studies of the Great Composers (London, n.d.), p. 376.

Bibliography
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Index
References to music examples are in bold Barnes, Barnaby, in Quo Vadis 269
Barsham, Eve 44
Allis, Michael, Parry’s Creative Process 3 Bax, Arnold, setting of Vaughan’s The
Arnold, Matthew Morning Watch 257–8
Trilling on 136, 174n8 Beethoven, Ludwig van, Symphony No.
Vaughan Williams, influence on 136 9: 219
works Bell, W.H., Walt Whitman Symphony 87
Dover Beach 136 Bennett, Joseph, review of Parry’s
The Scholar-Gypsy 135, 200 Symphony No.1: 3
Culler on 144–5, 151, 155 Benoliel, Bernard 7, 9
origins 144, 174n14 biography of Parry 2
and Thyrsis, Vaughan Williams’ Betjeman, John 6
musical fusion 151, 152, Bible, texts for compositions 301–2
203, 207 Birmingham Festival Choral Society 65, 76
Vaughan Williams’ setting Black, Leo 219, 227, 240, 248
158–64 Edmund Rubbra: Symphonist 218
Thyrsis 135, 151, 153 on The Morning Watch 252
Culler on 151 Blake, William, in The Morning Watch 253
origins 144 Boden, Anthony, biography of Parry,
Vaughan Williams’ setting sources 2
164–70 Boult, Adrian, on Rubbra 258
Brahms, Johannes, Das Schicksalslied 88,
Bach, J.S. 91, 101
Rubbra’s Sinfonia Sacra, influence on Brian, Havergal, “Gothic” Symphony 219
220–1, 229, 232–3, 236 Bridges, Robert, The Spirit of Man (poems)
St John Passion 232, 233 Auden on 283n19
St Matthew Passion 229, 232 in Quo Vadis 266–7, 267
Parry on 240 Britten, Benjamin, War Requiem 219
Banfield, Stephen Busch, William 197
on Finzi 177–8 Butterworth, George, “cherry tree” motif
on Finzi’s 181
Intimations of Immortality 202,
207, 208 Cambridge University Musical Society 88
Requiem da Camera 186 Campion, Thomas, cited in Quo Vadis 269
Gerald Finzi: An English Composer choral symphonies
61, 177 autograph manuscripts, interpretation
Sensibility and English Song 5 302
on Wordsworth’s, Intimations of examples 219–20, 301
Immortality 208 Clough, Arthur 144, 151, 164, 203
Barnby’s London Musical Society 65 Cohen, Harriet 257
Colles, H.C. working methods 289–90, 294

on Flos Campi 107, 108, 111 works
on Noble Numbers 275 Agincourt 265
Cotswolds, the, Finzi’s love of 179 The Blacksmiths 265
Couturier de Versan, Raoul (John Richard) The Canterbury Pilgrims 265
90–1 Fiddling While Rome Burns (book)
Crüger, Johannes 225, 232 281
Culler, Dwight Hierusalem 265
on The Scholar Gipsy 144–5, 151, 155 In Honour of the City 265
on Thyrsis 151 Nebuchadnezzar 257, 265, 301
autograph manuscripts 294
Darke, Harold 12 content 290, 293–4
Davie, Ian 197 influences on 287–8, 295
Davies, Walford 264 motifs 290, 291–3, 294
autograph manuscripts 276 and Parry’s, Job 290, 295
Master of the King’s Music 273 and Stanford’s, Three Holy
works Children 289, 295
The Long Journey 275–6 structure 290
Noble Numbers 273–5, 281 and Walton’s Belshazzar’s
Quo Vadis Feast 287, 288–9, 290,
influence on 273 295–6
similarities 275 The New Music (book) 265
Day, James, on Flos Campi 108–9, 110–11 The Progress of Music (book) 273
Debussy, Claude, Sirènes 107 Quo Vadis 301
Delius, Frederick, Sea Drift 87 Bridges’ Spirit of Man in
Dibble, Jeremy 7, 8–9, 9, 11, 12, 62, 72, 266–7, 267
74, 88, 91, 220 Davies’ Noble Numbers,
biography of Parry 1 similarities 275
C. Hubert H. Parry: His Life and design, Davies’ influence on
Music 61 273
Dickinson, A.E.F. 105, 124 Herrick’s “To God” in 276–7
on Flos Campi 107–8, 108, 110, Howes on 267–8
111–12, 112 McNaught on 269
Donne, John 274 motifs 268, 270
Douglas, Roy 114 Palmer on 268, 272
Dowden, Edward 89–90 premiere 265
Dunlop, Anna 116 seventh movement 276–80,
Dyson, Freeman 289, 294 278–9
Dyson, George Shelley’s
composition style 300 Adonais in 267
creative process 302 Prometheus Unbound in
honors 265–6 267
manuscripts, treatment of 285n38 summary of 268–73
marriage 283n22 text sources 266
on music 263 Wordsworth’s Intimations of
musical education 263–4 Immortality in 268–9
and Royal College of Music 263, 265 St Paul’s Voyage to Melita 265
Stanford’s pupil 289 Sweet Thames, Run Softly 265
Index 321
origins 197
Edwards, Frederick George 47 premier 197
Elgar, Edward and Wordsworth’s ode 202,
The Dream of Gerontius 21, 76 202–3, 207–8, 209
The Kingdom 12 fusion 203, 204–6, 207
The Music Makers 21 Prelude 180
English Folk-Song Society 88, 106 Requiem da Camera 137, 301
English Musical Renaissance 61, 177 autograph manuscripts 302
architects of 299 Banfield on 186
as construct 34n22 composer’s instructions 181
and Parry 34n33 dedication 190
and Royal College of Music 299 and Finzi’s identity 177–8, 190
Evans, Peter 258 Gibson’s Lament in 179, 180,
188–9
Farrar, Ernest Bristow 177, 200 Hardy’s In Time of “The
Fenton, Thomas 6 breaking of Nations” in
Ferguson, Howard, on Finzi 179, 180–1, 180, 188
197 manuscripts 179–80, 191–3,
Finzi Book Room, Reading University 178 195n14-15
Finzi, Christopher 44 motifs 181, 182, 183–4, 190
Finzi, Gerald 38 naming of work 181
Banfield on 177–8 orchestration 181
composition style 300 origins 177
Cotswolds, love of 179 revisions 303
creative process 302–3 text 185–6, 187
English poetry, influence of 178–9 Vaughan Williams’ Lord Thou
Ferguson on 179, 180–1, 197 Hast Been Our Refuge,
Hardy’s influence on 178–9 influence 178, 181, 182,
marriage 198 185, 193n6
on Parry 37 Foreman, Lewis 21, 287, 288, 295
Vaughan Williams Edmund Rubbra: Composer 217
friendship 198 Foss, Hubert, on Flos Campi 107, 108,
influence of 178 112–13
working methods 179 Frogley, Alain 114
works
Intimations of Immortality 137, Gambier-Parry, Thomas 2
182, 266, 301 Gibson, Wilfred, Lament, in Finzi’s
An Oxford Elegy, similarities Requiem da Camera 179, 180,
198–9, 209, 210 188–9
Banfield on 202, 207, 208 Gingerich, S.F., on Wordsworth’s
correspondence about 197 Intimations of Immortality 199,
dedication 198 207, 208–9
dream sequence 202 Glanvill, Joseph, The Vanity of
Harnham Down, influence of Dogmatizing 144
200, 201 Graves, Charles 7
manuscripts 215n18 biography of Parry 1, 4
motifs 200–1, 201, 202, 207 Greene, Harry Plunkett 62
music examples 204 Grover, Ralph Scott 218–19, 219
on The Morning Watch 250 The English Musical Renaissance and

The Music of Edmund Rubbra 61, the Press 1850-1914 3
217–18
Groves, Charles, Sir 221 Jaeger, August 12
Hadow, Henry, Music 265 Keats, John, Ode to a Nightingale 144

Dyson’s revision 295 Keble, John, cited in Quo Vadis 271
Haines, Jack 197 Kennedy, Michael 87, 114, 117
Hallé 65 on Flos Campi 108, 109, 110, 111, 112
Handel Festival of London 300
Hardy, Thomas Leith Hill Musical Festival 125
In Time of “The Breaking of Nations” Lengnick, Alfred 230, 251
179, 187 London Bach Choir 37, 106, 125
in Requiem da Camera 180, 188 Lynch, Thomas 270
influence on Finzi 178–9
Harris, William 264 MacDonald, Calum 258
Harty, Hamilton, Mystic Trumpeter 87 McNaught, W., on Quo Vadis 269
Hassler, Hans Leo 227, 232 Maconchy, Elizabeth 116, 125
Heap, Swinnerton 65 Mahler, Gustav, Symphony No. 8 219
Herbert, George, cited in Quo Vadis 271–2 Maitland, Fuller 88
Herrick, Robert Masefield, John, August 1914 179, 180,
“Night hath no wings” 270 182
Noble Numbers, Davies’ setting of Mellers, Wilfrid 256
273–5 on Flos Campi 108, 110, 111, 112
in Quo Vadis 269–71, 272, 276–9 Mendelssohn, Felix, Lobegesang
“Time Was upon the Wing” 187 (Symphony No. 2) 91, 101, 219
“To God” 276 Milford, Robin 197
Heywood, Thomas, cited in Quo Vadis 269 Morris, R.O. 179, 300
Higginson, Gary 248 Music Review 247
Highnam Court 2, 5, 6 Musical Times 3, 93
Holst, Gustav Parry’s letter to 47, 48
influence on Rubbra 256–7
works Newman, John Henry, The Dream of
Dirge for Two Veterans 87 Gerontius, cited in Quo Vadis 272
The Evening Watch 248, 256
The Hymn of Jesus 271 Ottaway, Hugh 227
The Mystic Trumpeter 87
Walt Whitman, overture 87 Pakenham, Simona 110
Howells, Herbert Palmer, Christopher 287, 295
on Beyond These Voices There Is Peace on Quo Vadis 268, 272
38, 46–56 Parry, Clinton 2
Hymnus Paradisi 266, 273 Parry, Hubert
Howes, Frank 4–5 agnosticism 8
on Flos Campi 107, 109–10, 111, 112 on Bach’s St Matthew Passion 240
on Quo Vadis 267–8 continental style 299
Howson, John Saul, Dean of Chester 62–3 creative process 302
Hudson, Percy, Canon 63 and English Musical Renaissance
Hughes, Meirion 4, 7 34n33
Index 323
Englishness 3 “The Dream Voices” 23,

ethical cantatas, composition 8–9 24–5
Finzi on 37 “The Dreamer” 9, 23, 25,
images of 1–7 26, 27–8, 28–9, 29–30
life, typical summary 34fn33 full score 14, 15–16
Shaw’s criticism of 7 key signatures 14, 15, 16
working methods 294–5 music examples 10, 18, 20
works original ending 13, 14,
Beyond These Voices There Is 16–17
Peace 37, 301 performances, rare 21
autograph manuscripts 54–6 premiere 12, 37
Howells on 38 revised ending 13, 14, 16,
motifs 47, 48 21, 31
and tonal chart 51–4 significance of 21
music example 49–50 “The Spirit of the Vision”
outline, transcription 57–8 24, 26, 27, 28, 30
text 46, 51–4 “The Spirit of the Vision
“Wagnerian” elements 46 and the Voices” 31
Blest Pair of Sirens 7 text 9, 17, 19, 23–32
Instinct and Character 6 “The Voices” 25, 26–7, 27,
Job 7, 8, 265, 301 28, 29, 30–1, 31
and Dyson’s Nebuchadnezzar working methods 21,
290, 295 294–5
revisions 294–5 Voces Clamantium 8
structure 288 “Adventus populi” 41–2,
text 288 43
Judith 7, 8 autograph manuscripts
King Saul 7, 8 43–6, 302
The Love that Casteth Out episodes 39
Fear 8, 37, 38, 220 motif 39
A Song of Darkness and Light and tonal chart 41–3
9, 220 music examples 40
Songs of Farewell 281 musical structure 39, 41
The Soul’s Ransom 8, 21, 38, performances 37
220 text 38–9, 41–3
performances 37 and Vaughan Williams’
recording 37 Flos Campi 301
Studies of the Great Composers “Vox Clamantis in deserto”
(book) 303–4 41
Symphony No.1: 3 “Vox Consolatoris” 42–3,
Symphony No.2 (“Cambridge”) 43
3, 88 “Vox populi” 42
The Vision of Life 6, 8–9, 11–12, “Vox Prophetae” 42, 43
38, 300 War and Peace 8
autograph manuscripts Parry, Maude, Lady 4
12–14, 302 Parry, Thomas 2
choruses 11 Parry, Thomas Gambier 2, 5–6
Payne, Elsie 218, 219, 227, 228
Pettet, E.C. 249 Black on 252

Pickard, John 219 Blake’s Jerusalem in 253
on Rubbra’s Sinfonia Sacra 221, 228, choral parts, missing 253, 256
233–4, 236 composition 247–8
Ponsonby, Arthur 2 compositional idiom 252
pre-Raphaelite movement 90 germinal units 249–50, 252,
Purcell, Henry 3 253, 254
Dido and Aeneas 88 Grover on 250
library 252
Raleigh, Walter, Sir, in Quo Vadis 269 motifs 250, 251
Ravel, Maurice, Daphnis and Chloe 107 music example 254–5
Rennert, Jonathan 37 premiere 248
Richter, Hans 62 sketchbook 253
Rodmell, Paul 62, 93 Vaughan’s poem, setting of
on Stanford’s Elegiac Ode 94 249, 252–3
Rossetti, Christina Georgina 90 Natum Maria Virgine 218
Rossetti, Dante Gabriel 90 The Secret Hymnody 247
Rossetti, William Michael Sinfonia Sacra (Symphony No. 9)
Leaves of Grass 247, 301
published selection 90 acrostic reading 240
review of 90 autograph manuscripts 224,
Royal College of Music 241–2
and Dyson 263, 265 Bach, influence of 220–1, 229,
and the English Musical Renaissance 232–3, 236
299 as choral symphony 218–19
Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra chorales 233, 240
221 composition process 223–4
Rubbra, Edmund “Conversation Piece” 226
Boult on 258 Crux fidelis hymn 225, 230,
composition style 300 234, 235
conversion to Roman Catholicism 218 D-centric passage 237, 239
creative process 302 fusion of styles 219, 237, 240
Holst’s influence on 256–7 germinal unit 228–9, 230, 234,
honors 221 237
marriages 221–2 melismas 237, 238–9
musical education 222 musical analysis 224–7, 228–9
studies of 217–18 Pickard on 221, 228, 233–4,
symphonies 218 236
working methods 222–3, 245n23 premiere 221
works Regina caeli hymn 236
The Dark Night of the Soul 218, schema 230–2
247 sources 219–20
Five Motets 247 Viri Galilaei hymn 236
Inscape 218 Song of the Soul 218
Lauda Sion 218 Symphony No. 6, E-F-A-B notes
Missa in Honorem Sancti Dominici 227–8, 240
218
The Morning Watch 218, 301 Sarum Psalter, cited in Quo Vadis 269
Index 325
Schumann, Robert, The Pilgrimage of the orchestra, function 74

Rose 88 origins 62–3
Schütz, Heinrich 220, 302 performances 65
Shaw, George Bernard, criticism of Parry 7 piano-vocal edition 64
Shelley, P.B. premiere 62
Adonais, in Quo Vadis 267, 272 story 63
Prometheus Unbound, in Quo Vadis structure 63–4
267, 273 text 77–82
Stanford, Charles Villiers 3, 177 tonal areas/themes, chart 75–6
biographies of 62 The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan
creative process 303 88
Germanic style 299 Stanford, John James 89
Musical Composition 91 Stokowski, Leopold 264
output 88
Pages from an Unwritten Diary 62 Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, In Memoriam
personal life 89 91–2
symphonies 88 Tennyson, Hallam 91, 101
Vaughan Williams, influence on 88 Tertis, Lionel 125
Whitman, influence of 89–90, 91, 101 Teschner, Melchior 226, 233
works Thalben-Ball, G. 37
The Canterbury Pilgrims 88 Three Choirs Festivals 178, 197, 256, 287,
Elegiac Ode 87, 300 300
autograph manuscripts 93–4, Tippett, Michael, Child of Our Time 219
104n21 Trilling, Lionel, on Arnold 136, 174n8
influences on 91, 101 Tyrrell, Robert Yelverton 89
music extracts 96–7, 100
musical analysis 94–5, 98–101 Vaughan, Henry
orchestration 94 The Morning Watch
Rodmell on 94 poem 218, 247
structure 94 Bax’s setting of 257–8
text 92–3, 95, 98, 99 Rubbra’s setting of 249, 252–3
Savonarola 88, 98 text 248–9
Symphony No. 1 88 “My soul, there is a country”, in Quo
Symphony No. 2 (“Elegiac”) 88, Vadis 272, 276, 279–80
89 “The water-fall”, in Quo Vadis 271
The Three Holy Children 62–82, Vaughan Williams, Adeline 106–7, 125,
265, 287, 301 135, 157
1885 score 62, 65, 66, 67, 68, Vaughan Williams, Ralph 38
70–1, 72, 74, 76 autograph manuscripts 105–6, 114,
1902 version 65, 66, 67, 69, 70, 124–5
71, 73, 74, 76 collettes 116
autograph manuscript 64–5, Bible, annotated 115
66–7, 70–1, 302 birthplace 178
choruses 72, 74 composition
and Dyson’s Nebuchadnezzar passion for 125–6
289, 295 style 300
full score 66 Finzi
music extracts 68–9, 72, 73 friendship 198
influence on 178 dream vision 148–9, 153

productivity 106–7, 157 final section 156–7
Stanford, influence of 88 Intimations of Immortality,
studies on 105 similarities 198–9, 209,
working methods 113 210
works motifs 145, 146, 147–8, 151,
Christmas Cantata 157 153, 154, 155
Concerto in D Minor (Concerto music examples 146, 150
Accademico) 107 premiere 135
Dover Beach, lost 136 reception 135
The English Hymnal 125 structure 145
Five Mystical Songs 274 The Scholar Gipsy
Flos Campi setting 158–64
autograph score 114, 116–19, Thyrsis, fusion 151, 152,
120, 120–2, 121, 123–5, 203, 207
126, 302 Thyrsis, setting 164–70
chorus 108 Pastoral Symphony (Symphony
composer’s notes on 109 No. 3) 110, 111, 178, 181
origins 113–14 The Pilgrim’s Progress 157
and Parry’s Voces Clamantium Sancta Civitas 107, 125, 257
301 A Sea Symphony 21, 87, 101, 273
performances 106 influences on 300
reception 107, 108–10 The Shepherds of the Delectable
revisions 127–9 Mountains 125
Song of Solomon, use 107, Sine Nomine 111
113–14 Sinfonia Antarctica 157
sound quality 112 Songs of Praise (with Martin
The Future, unpublished 136 Shaw) 125
Harnham Down Symphony No. 4 in F minor 228
catalogue entry/description Symphony No. 8 in D minor 157
170–1 Symphony No. 9 in E minor 157
Finzi’s Intimations of Thanksgiving for Victory 135
Immortality, influence on This Day (Hodie) 157
200, 201 Toward the Unknown Region 87
full score 138–41 Two Impressions for Orchestra
motifs 137, 142–3, 145 136, 174n12, 215n15
verse from Scholar-Gipsy 136 “Viola Suite” 125
The Lark Ascending 111 The Woods of Westermain (lost)
Lord, Thou Hast Been Our Refuge, 174n12, 215n15
influence on Requiem da Vaughan Williams, Ursula 106, 157
Camera 178, 181, 182, 185, on Flos Campi 108, 113
193n6 Working with Vaughan Williams 114
Mass in G minor 125
Oxford Book of Carols 125 Walford Davies, H. 37, 56
An Oxford Elegy 301 Walton, William
catalogue entry/description Belshazzar’s Feast 202, 301
171–3 and Dyson’s Nebuchadnezzar 287,
criticism of 136 288–9, 290, 295–6
Index 327
reception 289 Intimations of Immortality

revisions 295 Banfield on 208
working methods 295 in Dyson’s Quo Vadis 268–9
Whitman, Walt in Finzi’s
influence on Intimations of Immortality 202,
British music 87 202–3, 207–8, 209
Stanford 89–90, 91, 101 fusion 203, 204–6, 207
Leaves of Grass 87, 89, 90 setting 211–14
Memories of President Lincoln 91 Gingerich on 199, 207, 208–9
Whittaker, William G. 38 working methods
Williams, Isaac, cited in Quo Vadis 271 Dyson 289–90, 294
Wilson, H.F. 63 Finzi 179
Wilson, Steurt 135 Parry 294–5
Wolverhampton Festival Choral Society 65 Rubbra 222–3, 245n23
Wood, Charles 116 Vaughan Williams 113
Wood, Henry, Sir 116 Walton 295
Worcester Festival 8, 38, 257
Wordsworth, William Young, Percy M., on Flos Campi 110, 111

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List of Chapter Appendices  vii

1 Hubert Parry and The Vision of Life Reconsidered: “And we

2 Voces Clamantium and Beyond These Voices There Is Peace: The

3 Two Versions of The Three Holy Children by Charles Stanford:

4 Elegiac Ode by Charles Stanford: An Inspired Setting, Influential

5 Flos Campi by Ralph Vaughan Williams: “From

6 “The light we sought is shining still”: An Oxford Elegy by

7 “So great a beauty on these English fields”: Requiem da Camera

8 “The visionary gleam”: Gerald Finzi, Ralph Vaughan Williams,

9 Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra by Edmund Rubbra  217

10 The Morning Watch, Op. 55 by Edmund Rubbra  247

11 “A home of unfading splendour”: Quo Vadis by George Dyson

12 George Dyson’s Nebuchadnezzar and the Stimulus of Parry,

1 Text of The Vision of Life (1907/revised 1914)

2 A Transcription of Parry’s Outline of Beyond These Voices

3 Text of The Three Holy Children (1885/revised 1902)

5 Revisions to the Autograph Full Score of Flos Campi

6.1 The Scholar-Gipsy and Thyrsis by Matthew Arnold as Set

6.2 Catalogue Entries and Descriptions of Harnham Down

7 Description of the Requiem da Camera Manuscripts 191

8 William Wordsworth’s Intimations of Immortality

9 Description of Sinfonia Sacra Autographs 241

2.1 Voces Clamantium: summary motivic and tonal chart  41

2.2 Beyond These Voices There Is Peace: summary motivic

9.1 Sinfonia Sacra schema  230

2.1 Letter to F.G. Edwards containing Parry’s Outline of Beyond

6.1 Harnham Down, full score, GB-Lbl Add. MS. 57278,

10.2 The Morning Watch, sketch without initial choral entrance,

1.1 The Vision of Life by Hubert Parry, introduction, motifs a and b

1.3 The Vision of Life by Hubert Parry, “Awake, ye that live in

2.1 Voces Clamantium by Hubert Parry, introduction, orchestral motif

2.2 Beyond These Voices There is Peace by Hubert Parry, motifs a, b, c,

4.1 Elegiac Ode by Charles Stanford, introduction (vocal score;

4.2 Elegiac Ode by Charles Stanford, first movement, choral entrance

4.3 Elegiac Ode by Charles Stanford, third movement, beginning

6.1 Harnham Down by Ralph Vaughan Williams, motif c

6.2 Harnham Down by Ralph Vaughan Williams, motif e (unpublished),

6.3 An Oxford Elegy by Ralph Vaughan Williams, motifs a and b

6.4 An Oxford Elegy by Ralph Vaughan Williams, “causeway chill

6.5 An Oxford Elegy by Ralph Vaughan Williams, fusion of the

8.1 Intimations of Immortality by Gerald Finzi, motifs a and b (vocal

8.2 Intimations of Immortality by Gerald Finzi, fusion of Wordsworth’s

9.1 Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra by Edmund Rubbra, germinal

9.2 Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra by Edmund Rubbra, Crux fidelis

9.3 Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra by Edmund Rubbra, “Crux” vocal

9.4 Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra by Edmund Rubbra, D-centric

10.1 The Morning Watch by Edmund Rubbra, motifs a and b

11.1 Quo Vadis by George Dyson, movement 1, motif x (vocal score;

11.2 Quo Vadis by George Dyson, movement 7, “Come To Me, God”

12.1 Nebuchadnezzar by George Dyson, motif a (vocal score;

12.2 Nebuchadnezzar by George Dyson, brooding orchestral theme

12.3 Nebuchadnezzar by George Dyson, majestic orchestral motif

6) are found in Intimations of Immortality by Finzi (Chapter 8), indicating a true

Anyone investigating the music of Parry, Stanford, Vaughan Williams et alia is

Interest in nineteenth- and twentieth-century British music has undergone

The first book-length work dealing specifically with the compositional

they succeeded.”29 Hughes went on to close his chapter, part of an entertaining,

The fascinating and varied images of Parry presented in the foregoing

Ethical Cantatas and The Vision of Life

List of Chapter Appendices vii

9 Symphony No. 9, Sinfonia Sacra by Edmund Rubbra 217

10 The Morning Watch, Op. 55 by Edmund Rubbra 247

7 Description of the Requiem da Camera Manuscripts 191

9 Description of Sinfonia Sacra Autographs 241

2.1 Voces Clamantium: summary motivic and tonal chart 41

9.1 Sinfonia Sacra schema 230