Select Poetry.

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume 18, Issue 1092, 11 August 1871, Page 2

Select Poetry.

THE POINTS MAN'S CHILD. A TACT. It was on an English summer day, Some six or seven years ago, That a pointsman before "his cabin paced, Wit h a listless step and slow. He lit his pipe—there was plenty of time— In his work was nothing new: Just to watch the signals and shift the points When the next train came in view. He leant 'gainst his cabin, and smoked away, He was used to lounge and wait; Twelvehours at a stretch he must mind those points And down trains were mostly late. A rumbl \ —a rotir —she is coming now— She's true to time to-day; He turns —and not far off, between the rails, Sees his youngest boy at play! Not far, but too far. The train is at hand, And the child is crawling there, And patting the ground with crows of delight— And not a moment to spare! His face was dead white, but his purpose firm, As straight to his post he trod, And shifted the points and saved the down train, And trusted his child to God. There's a rush in his ears, though the train has passed, He gropes, for he cannot see, To the place where the laughing baby crawled, Where the mangled limbs must be. But he hears a cry that is only of fear—■ His joy seems too great to bear, Eor, his duty done, God saw to his son — The train had not touched a huir ! —Good Words.