k so great exceeds my range,
But I can feel and see
The inward peace, and outward trend,
And hear likewise His voice,
The outward with the inward blend,
And answer to my choice.

I know not how mind touches mind
And thoughts spring into life;
Nor know the mystic bands which bind,
Like husband to the wife,
My loving Lord and my poor soul,
But this I know full well,
If I submit to His control
I cannot sink to hell.

I know the world shakes to its base,
And man still wars with man,
The bane of sin rests on our race,
And Satan leads the van;
But hope exults within my breast
Tho 'darkness shrouds the sky;
God is the friend of the oppressed,
The good will never die.

I know not why my plans should fail
When I have plan'd for God,
And on this ground my foes assail,
But I still kiss the rod,
For tho' I cannot tell the why
My heart is filled with peace;
I can on my dear Lord rely,
And wait for my release.

I know He is both true and kind,
And has my good at heart.
His discipline will only bind
With cords which naught can part,
My heart's affections to His throne,
And fit me for my rest,
Nor do I tread life's path alone;
_He knows_, and I am blest.

"SALUT AUX BLESSIS"

A group of mounted officers
Ride up and fall in line;
Their gleaming swords hang at their sides,
Chevrons their arms entwine;
They bare their heads as pass along
A train of wounded men,
Their shattered comrades from the field
They ne'er may meet again.

"_Salut aux Blessis!_" loud they cry.
The wounded soldiers hear,
And for a time forget their pain,
And swell the lusty cheer.
Thus should it be in other lines;
The men who lead the van
Should e'er accord a brother's cheer
To every wounded man.

The "rank and file" the wounds receive;
Sometimes the leader, too;
But honest wounds none should despise;
The bearer may be true.
He stood his ground 'gainst mighty odds,
And dared the shot and shell;
So bare your heads, ye scarless ones,
And say, "_Thou hast done well!_"

SONNET

Each human life with mysteries is replete;
They press upon us in its early dawn,
And multiply apace as years roll on,
And at each turn we must their problems meet.
Reason is blind, and fails their end to see,
Misjudges God and gathers only woe,
And from this spring much turbid waters flow.
Only the pure in heart from doubt are free;
They read aright the writing on the w