>OCK- 
’atience, 
’Tis all men’s office to speak patience 
To those that wring under the load of 
sorrow, 
But no man’s virtue nor sufficiency, 
To be so moral when he shall .endure 
The like himself. 
Shakespeare. 
Not yet, not yet the light; 
Underground, out of sight, 
Like moles we blindly toil. 
On ! though we know not where; 
Some day the upper air. 
The sun, and all things fair, 
We reach through the dark soil. 
\ Beatrix Tollemache. 
