The Ill-Fated Lighthouse

Author’s Introduction - A word about Minot’s Ledge Lighthouse: The Minot’s Ledge lighthouse, built 1850, lying off the southeastern chop of Boston Bay, was the first lighthouse built in the U. S. that was not protected by exposure to the fury of ocean storms. It was, then unfinished, in the shape of an egg-shell painted red and supported by iron pillars. The first keeper, Isaac Dunham, quit after 10 months citing how unsafe the structure was (swaying 2 feet in each direction in a storm). His fears were well founded, for in April 1851, a colossal storm struck the New England coast. The lighthouse was toppled and swept away, and the two attendants, Joseph Antoine and Joseph Wilson, were killed. The following day only a few bent pilings were found on the rock. This tragedy set the standard for the construction of more solid structures using granite blocks for greater support and a new light was built by June, 1860. To this day, legend has it, that in dark and stormy weather, sailors hear a voice coming from Minot’s Light crying in Portuguese (the nationality of one of the deceased keepers – Joseph Antoine) – “Stay away!” The Ill-Fated Lighthouse The towering light that threw Its friendly beams afar Over the foaming waves, The sailor’s guiding star, Is quench’d – and darkness glooms Where late it bless’d his sight, As homeward bound he came In the dark hour of night. The thundering surges swept Over the rocky bed, From which the lighthouse rear’d Aloft its flaming head. And lo! They bore away In that mad fearful hour, The work that man had made – The tempest’s rightful dower And yet a richer freight The heaving billows bore, Than wreck of perished Light! For tossing to the shore The drench’d and lifeless forms Of youthful dead there were, Two brave and manly hearts That sadly perish’d there! Farewell ye faithful ones! Your memory shall live, While feeling hearts remain, Pity’s sweet drops to give, Or any to recount The terrors of that night, When the drear sea engulf’d The hapless beacon light. And you, ye rushing waves! Sweep – foaming, sweep along, And ever as ye go, Lift high your noisy song; For thou, remorseless sea! Maketh all things thine own! Then send aloft your tune, And madly thunder on.