At two in the morning, December’s cold air,
Old Henry Hall climbed the lighthouse stair.
Ninety-four years, yet steady and strong,
Keeping the light, as he had all along.
His comrades lay drunk, in slumber so deep,
While Henry alone the night watch did keep.
No modern bulbs, no wires in sight,
Just candles aflame to guide ships by night.
He entered the room where the chandelier burned,
A faint smell of smoke as the old man turned.
Above him the dome, with soot thick and black,
Had started to smolder, the fire’s first crack.
He opened a window to clear out the haze,
But air rushed inside in a furious blaze.
The soot caught alight, the dome roared with fire,
The wooden frame sparked, the flames climbing higher.
He raced to awake the drunk men below,
But they would not stir, too heavy with woe.
So back up the stairs, with courage untold,
He fought with the buckets, though weary and old.
At last they joined him, his fellows now roused,
Together they battled, their faces all doused.
But Henry stood closest, the heat on his face,
Throwing the water in desperate pace.
Then pain like a dagger tore through his chest,
His stomach aflame though water was pressed.
His mates saw him smoking, his clothes set alight,
And doused him in water deep into the night.
They fled to a cave as the tower came down,
Its fiery crown lighting sea and town.
All through the darkness, old Henry groaned,
A burning inside that never was stoned.
At dawn they were saved by a ship passing near,
Back to the mainland, away from the fear.
The doctor declared, “Just burns and some smoke,
Rest now, old keeper, your strength won’t be broke.”
But days passed in fever, his body grew weak,
The pain in his belly too heavy to speak.
Twelve days from the fire, the keeper did die,
Yet mystery lingered in every eye.
The autopsy came, and horror was read—
Inside his stomach, a four-inch of lead.
A molten shard dripped from the burning dome,
Falling straight downward as he faced the foam.
He swallowed the metal, still blazing and red,
It hardened within him, and slowly he bled.
That was the torment, the pain he had cried,
The reason the rugged old mariner died.
Now history keeps what the fire had fed,
A relic displayed—Henry’s swallowed lead.
The oldest of keepers, with courage so bright,
Who perished defending the mariner’s light.