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And yet they are the outcasts of the earth, A race oppressed and scorned by ruling man; How can they thus consent to joy and mirth Who live beneath a world-eternal ban? No faith is theirs, no shining ray of hope, Except the martyr's faith, the hope that death Some day will free them from their narrow scope And once more merge them with the infinite breath. But, oh! they dance with poetry in their eyes Whose dreamy loveliness no sorrow dims, And parted lips and eager, gleeful cries, And perfect rhythm in their nimble limbs. The gifts divine are theirs, music and laughter; All other things, however great, come after.

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