If we had been ducks, we might dabble in mud; Or dogs, we might play till it ended in blood: So foul and so fierce are their natures; But Thomas and William, and such pretty names, Should be cleanly and harmless as doves or as lambs, Those lovely, sweet innocent creatures. Not a thing that we do, nor a word that we say, Should injure another in jesting or play, For he's still in earnest that's hurt: How rude are the boys that throw pebbles and mire; There's none but a madman will fling about fire, And tell you, "'T is all but in sport!" --_Isaac Watts_. {344} AGAINST QUARRELING AND FIGHTING Let dogs delight to bark and bite, For God hath made them so; Let bears and lions growl and fight, For 't is their nature, too: But, children, you should never let Such angry passions rise; Your little hands were never made To tear each other's eyes. Let love through all your actions run, And all your words be mild; Live like the blessed Virgin's Son, That sweet and lovely Child. His soul was gentle as a lamb; And as His stature grew, He grew in favor both with man And God, His Father, too. Now, Lord of all, He reigns above, And from His heavenly throne He sees what children dwell in love, And marks them for His own. --_Isaac Watts_. {345} LOVE BETWEEN BROTHERS AND SISTERS Whatever brawls disturb the street, There should be peace at home; Where sisters dwell and brothers meet, Quarrels should never come. Birds in their little nests agree, And 't is a shameful sight, When children of one family Fall out, and chide, and fight. Hard names at first, and threatening words That are but noisy breath, May grow to clubs and naked swords, To murder and to death. 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.