The Arctic

John Bannister Tabb

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Is it a shroud or bridal veil
That hides it from our sight,
The lonely sepulchre of Day,
Or banquet-hall of Night?

Are those the lights of revelry
That glimmer o'er the deep,
Or flashes of a funeral pyre
Above the corpse of Sleep?

Beyond those peaks impregnable
Of everlasting snow,
One star--a steadfast beacon--burns
To guard the coast below.

Whence come the ghostly galleons
The pirate Sun to brave,
And furl the shadowy flag of Death
Above a warmer grave?

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