Page:Negro poets and their poems (IA negropoetstheirp00kerl).pdf/194

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Vast realm beyond the gate of death, Where craven scavengers and kings, Alike, with passing final breath, Relinquish claim to earthly things:

Endless, unexplored expanse, Where souls, bereft of mortal clay, Wander at will, in peace, perchance— Perchance in strife, who dare would say?

Even in the confinement to which his affliction has subjected him, Mr. Dandridge has felt the strong pulse-throbs of his people’s new kindled aspirations. The strength of the soul may indeed increase with the weakness of the body. These lines are surely not wanting in the passion without which “facts” are cold:

Triumphant Sable Heroes homeward turning, Arrayed in medals bright, and half-healed scars, Have service, life, and limb been given earning Trophies issued at the hand of Mars? If your sole gain has been these “marks of battle,” If valiant deeds insure no greater claim, If you are still to be the herder’s cattle, Then ill spilt blood fell short of Freedom’s aim. Democracy means more than empty letters, And Liberty far more than partly free; Yet, both are void as long as men in fetters Are at eclipse with Opportunity.