After my last letter, I spent two tedious days in employments that I now blush to relate;--no less than doing all the dirty work of the cottage, such as sweeping the room, kindling the fire, cooking the victuals; and trying, by dint of comb and soap, to make cherubs of the children. What bewitched me, I cannot conceive, for the humanity of other heroines is ever clean, elegant, and fit for the reader. They give silver and tears in abundance, but they never descend to the bodily charity of working, like wire-drawers, for withered old women and brats with rosy noses. I can only say, in vindication of myself, that those who sheltered me were poor and helpless themselves, and that they deserved some recompense on my part for their hospitality to me. So you must not condemn me totally; for I do declare to you, that I would much rather have relieved them with my purse, and soothed them with my sympathy, than have fried their herrings and washed their faces. At the same time, take notice, I was not totally forgetful of my nobler destiny; for I dedicated part of this period to the composition of a poem, which I reserve for my memoirs. My biographer can say that it was suggested by the story of Susan; and even if it should still appear to be somewhat forced into my book, I would rather have this the case, than suffer posterity to go without it altogether. Here it is. CAROLINE Beneath a thatch, where gadding woodbine flower'd, About the lattice and the porch embower'd, An aged widow lived, whose calm decline, Clung on one hope, her lovely Caroline. Her lovely Caroline, in virtue blest, As morning snow, was spotless and unprest. Her tresses unadorn'd a braid controll'd, Her pastoral russet knew no civic gold. In either cheek an eddying dimple play'd, And blushes flitted with a rosy shade. Her airy step seem'd lighting from the sky, And joy and frolic sparkled in her eye. Yet would she weep at sorrows not her own, And love foredoom'd her heart his panting throne. For her the rustics strove a homely grace, Clipped their redundant locks, and smooth'd their pace; Lurk'd near her custom'd path, in trimmest guise, And talk'd the simple praises of her eyes. But fatal hour, when she, by swains unmov'd, Beheld the master of the vale, and loved. Long had he tempted her reserve in vain, Till one luxuriant eve that sunn'd the plain; On the bent herbage, where a gushing brook, Blue harebells and the tufted violet shook; Where hung umbrageous branches overhead, And the rain'd roses lay in fragments red, He found the slumbering maid. Prophane he press'd Her virgin lip, then first by man carest. She starts, and like a ruddy cloud bestrewn, At brake of morning, o'er the paly moon; Or as on Alpine cliffs, a wounded doe Sheds all its purple life upon the snow; So the maid blushes, while her humble eyes