Hester Lynch Piozzi

Hester Lynch Piozzi Poems

Hester Lynch Piozzi Biography

Hester Lynch Thrale (born Hester Lynch Salusbury and after her second marriage, Hester Lynch Piozzi ) (27 January 1741 [NS] – 2 May 1821) was a British diarist, author, and patron of the arts. Her diaries and correspondence are an important source of information about Samuel Johnson and eighteenth-century life. Thrale was born at Bodvel Hall, Caernarvonshire, Wales. As a member of the powerful Salusbury Family, she belonged to one of the most illustrious Welsh land-owning dynasties of the Georgian era. She was a direct descendant of Katheryn of Berain. Her father was John Salusbury. After her father had gone bankrupt in an attempt to invest in Halifax, Canada, she married the rich brewer Henry Thrale on 11 October 1763, at St. Anne's Chapel, Soho, London. They had 12 children and lived at Streatham Park. However, the marriage was often strained; her husband was often slighted by members of the Court and may well have married to improve his social status. The Thrales' eldest daughter, Hester, became a viscountess. After her marriage, Mrs Thrale was liberated and free to associate with whom she pleased. Due to her husband's financial status, she was able to enter London society, as a result of which she met Samuel Johnson, James Boswell, Bishop Thomas Percy, Oliver Goldsmith and other literary figures, including the young Fanny Burney, whom she took with her to Gay Street, Bath. (There is some evidence that she was jealous of the attention given to the youthful novelist.) Johnson visited Wales in Thrale's company on several occasions. In 1775 he wrote two verses for her, the first in celebration of her 35th birthday, and another in Latin to honour her. Following her husband's death (4 April 1781), she fell in love with and, on 25 July 1784, married Gabriel Mario Piozzi, an Italian music teacher. This caused a rift with Johnson, which was only perfunctorily mended shortly before his death. The levelling marriage also earned her the disapproval of Burney (who would in 1793 marry the impoverished, Catholic émigré Alexandre D'Arblay). With her second husband, Hester retired to Brynbella, a specially-built country house on her Bach y Graig estate in the Vale of Clwyd, near Tremeirchion village in north Wales. During this time she began to reflect heavily on her ancestry, and for a time became obsessed with the idea of reclaiming her father's Canadian lands in Herring Cove, an enclave of Nova Scotia. After Johnson's death, she published Anecdotes of the late Samuel Johnson (1786) and her letters (1788). Together with her diaries which were known as Thraliana, and were not published until 1949, these sources help to fill out the often biased picture of Johnson presented in Boswell's Life. Johnson often stayed with the Thrale household and had his own room, above the library at Streatham in which he worked. Hester's papers provide more insight into his composition process. She died at Royal York Crescent in Clifton, Bristol and was buried on 16 May 1821 near Brynbella in the churchyard of Corpus Christi Church, Tremeirchion. A plaque inside the church is inscribed "Dr. Johnson's Mrs. Thrale. Witty, Vivacious and Charming, in an age of Genius She held ever a foremost Place". From the time of her death to nearly the present, she was referred to by scholars as Johnson had referred to her as "Mrs Thrale" or "Hester Thrale." However, she is now often referred to as either "Hester Lynch Piozzi" or "Mrs Piozzi.")

The Best Poem Of Hester Lynch Piozzi

The Three Warnings

The tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground;
Twas therefore said, by ancient sages,
That love of life increas'd with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pain grows sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears :
This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleas'd to hear a modern tale.
When sports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day,
Death call'd aside the jocund groom
With him into another room;
And looking grave, ' You must,' says he,
'Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.
'With you ! and quit my Susan's side! '
With you !' the hapless husband cried;
'Young as I am ! 'Tis monstrous hard !
'Besides, in truth, I'm not prepar'd;
'My thoughts on other matters go,
'This is my wedding night, you know.'
What more he urg'd I have not heard,
His reasons could not well be stronger;
So Death the poor delinquent spar'd,
And left to live a little longer.
Yet, calling up a serious look,
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke,
'Neighbour,' he said, ' farewell! no more
'Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour:
'And farther, to avoid all blame
'Of cruelty upon my name,
'To give you time for preparation,
'And fit you for your future station,
'Three several warnings you shall have,
'Before you're summon'd to the .grave:
'Willing for once I'll quit my prey,
'And grant a kind reprieve,
'In hopes you'll have no more to Say,
'But, when I call again this way,
'Well pleas'd the world will leave.'
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.
What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he liv'd, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smok'd his pipe, and strok'd his horse,
The willing Muse shall tell:
He chaffer'd then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceiv'd his growing old,
Nor thought of Death as near;
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,
He pass'd his hours in peace:
But while he view'd his wealth increase,
While thus along Life's dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares,
Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood
As all alone he sat,
Th' unwelcome messenger of fate
Once more before him stood.
Half kill'd with anger and surprise,
'So soon return'd!' old Dobson cries;
'So soon d'ye call it!' Death replies,
'Surely, my friend, you're but in jest!
'Since I was here before,
'Tis six and thirty years at least,
'And you are now fourscore.'
'So much the worse,' the clown rejoin'd,
'To spare the aged would be kind:
'However, see your search be legal;
'And your authority—is't regal?
'Else you're come on a fool's errand,
'With but a secretary's warrant:
'Besides, you promis'd me Three Warnings,
'Which I have look'd for nights and mornings!
'But for that loss of time and ease,
'I can recover damages.'
'I know,' cries Death, ' that, at the best,
'I seldom am a welcome guest;
'But don't be captious, friend, at least:
'I little thought you'd still be able
'To stump about your farm and stable;
'Your years have run to a great length,
'I wish you joy, tho', of your strength !'
'Hold,' says the farmer, ' not so fast,
'I have been lame these four years past.'
'And no great wonder,' Death replies;
'However, you still keep your eyes;
'And sure, to see one's loves and friends,'
'For legs and arms would make amends.'
'Perhaps,' says Dobson, ' so it might,
'But latterly I've lost my sight.'
'This is a shocking story, faith,
'Yet there's some comfort still,' says Death;
'Each strives your sadness to amuse,
'I warrant you hear all the news.'
'There's none,' cries he, ' and if there were,
'I'm grown so deaf, 1 could not hear.'
'Nay then,' the spectre stern rejoin'd,
'These are unjustifiable yearnings;
'If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
'You've had your Three sufficient Warnings;
'So come along, no more we'll part!
He said, and touch'd him with his dart;
And now, old Dobson turning pale,
Yields to his fate—so ends my tale.

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