I Pastori - Oostenbrug, Wytze

📄

Preview not generated yet

Loading player...

"It is September, the period when the shepherds of Abruzzo leave the mountain pastures and head for the sea to lead the flocks and spend the winter in the plains. The shepherds had drunk much in the mountain springs, so that the taste of the water of their native places might remain a comfort to their souls; this thirst was not physical, but homesickness for the land they had to leave. In the footsteps of the old fathers they go to the plain by a path marked by the ancient passage of the herds during the cattle migration. In the distance, the voice of the one who first sees the glitter of the sea sounds. Now the herd walks by the sea; there are no winds in the air. The sun gilds the sheep's wool to such an extent that the flock is almost indistinguishable from the sand. The sound of the waves and what the sheep do with their feet are sweet sounds. The memory of that trip brought them great nostalgia and regret for his country. The memory of the shepherds fills the poet's soul with nostalgia: he sees them again as they leave the pastures and walk slowly along the grassy paths that lead to the sea, the same paths their ancestors have walked for centuries; he envisions them stopping to drink at the alpine springs and then moving on. There are 2 versions: with either accompaniment by piano or by clarinet + string quartet. I Pastori is part of the cycle "Canti" (songs)."

◈ Genre → Madrigals ♬ Voicing → SATB ¶ Language → Italian

Parts 4

Instruments Piano

Pages 14

CPDL # 73460

Editor Wytze Oostenbrug

Posted 2023-04-13

License CPDL License

¶Lyrics / Text

I Pastori Settembre, andiamo. È tempo di migrare. Ora in terra d'Abruzzo i miei pastori lascian gli stazzi e vanno verso il mare: scendono all'Adriatico selvaggio che verde è come i pascoli dei monti. Han bevuto profondamente ai fonti alpestri, che sapor d'acqua natìa rimanga ne’ cuori esuli a conforto, che lungo illuda la lor sete in via. Rinnovato hanno verga d’avellano. E vanno pel tratturo antico al piano, quasi per un erbal fiume silente, su le vestigia degli antichi padri. O voce di colui che primamente conosce il tremolar delle marina! Ora lungh'esso il litoral cammina la greggia. Senza mutamento é l’aria. Il sole imbionda si la viva lana che quasi dalla sabbia non divaria. Isciacquio, calpestìo, dolci romori. Ah perché non son io co'miei pastori?