The devil tempts one mother's son
To rage against another;
So wicked Cain was hurried on
Till he had killed his brother.

The wise will make their anger cool,
At least before 't is night;
But in the bosom of a fool
It burns till morning light.

Pardon, O Lord, our childish rage,
Our little brawls remove;
That, as we grow to riper age,
Our hearts may all be love.
--_Isaac Watts_.

{346}

A SUMMER EVENING

How fine has the day been! How bright was the sun!
How lovely and joyful the course that he run;
Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun,
And there follow'd some droppings of rain:
But now the fair traveler's come to the West,
His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best;
He paints the skies gay as he sinks to his rest,
And foretells a bright rising again.

Just such is the Christian. His course he begins,
Like the sun in the mist, when he mourns for his sins,
And melts into tears; then he breaks out and shines,
And travels his heavenly way:
But when he comes nearer to finish his race
Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace,
And gives a sure hope, at the end of his days,
Of rising in brighter array.
--_Isaac Watts_.

{347}{348}

[Illustration]
THE PITTI MADONNA
By Murillo (1618-1682)

"The Pitti Madonna is one of this sweet company, and perhaps the
loveliest of them all. Both she and her beautiful boy are full of
gentle earnestness, and if they are too simple-minded to realize
what is in store for them, they are none the less ready to do the
Father's will."--_Hurll_
[End illustration]

{349}

SUMMER

The heats of Summer come hastily on,
The fruits are transparent and clear;
The buds and the blossoms of April are gone,
And the deep colored cherries appear.

The blue sky above us is bright and serene,
No cloud on its bosom remains;
The woods and the fields and the hedges are green,
And the haycock smells sweet from the plains.

But, hark! from the woodlands what sound do I hear?
The voices of pleasure so gay;
The merry young haymakers cheerfully bear
The heat of the hot summer's day.

While some with bright scythe, singing shrill to the tone,
The tall grass and buttercups mow,
Some spread it with rakes, and by others 't is thrown
Into sweet smell