KANSAS.

FREDERICK DOUGLASS: DEAR SIR:—The following beautiful and touching lines were written and handed to me by Mrs. TRACY CUTLER, of Illinois, who, in company, with Mrs. HIBBARD, of Chicago, recently visited our city for the purpose of organizing a Female Kansas Aid Society. They are high-minded and noble women, and are devoting their energies to a praiseworthy cause. They are both good speakers, and Mrs. CUTLER is eloquent with her , as well as with her . We commend them and their cause to the humane everywhere.

C.

ROCHESTER, July, 1856.

Is it distant thunder
Booming o'er the plain?
Is that cloud that riseth
Filled with summer rain?
Clear the sun is shining,
Yet no rainbow falls,
With its seven-fold promise,
Upon the azure walls.

Stranger things are written
On the heaven to-day.
Then the sun hath ever witnessed,
With its burning ray—
Since the days of Concord,
The days of Bunker Hill,
Where the noble form of Warren
Lay bloody, cold, and still.

"Lawrence lies in ashes!"
There came the fearful wail,
Shrieking o'er the prairies,
Borne upon the gale,
Like a dreadful death knell,
Ringing through the land;
The obsequies of Freedom,
O, my people, are at hand.

Four score years it tolleth!
Four score years have fled,
Since, around the cradle,
Of one who now lies dead,
Stood a trembling people,
Watching the faint life
That, with anguished death throes,
Began its mortal strife.

Four score years it tolleth!
O'er the bier we tell,
How fair his ruddy boyhood!
How bravely and how well!
His manhood's laurels clustered
Around his noble brow!
How mighty were his victories,
With axe, and spade, and plow.

How broad his lands extended!
What sons and daughters fair,
Around his fireside clustered,
Alike his love to share!
How strong his iron sinews,
Despite its for score years—
His jetty locks scarce whitened
With toils, and griefs, and fears.

Lay back the pall that covers
That mighty prostrate form.
And all ye weeping daughters
Pour out your grief and pain.

His sons are passing by:
The parricide who slew him
This sign dares not deny.

Lift up the wail, ye widowed!
Ye houseless orphans, cry!
Rend, rend the air with anguish!
The doom, the doom is nigh!
Wail, Rachels of our nation,
Whose first born sons have gone
To rear new fanes to Freedom—
Gone, never to return.

To-day, the dust of Barber
Blends with the Kansas soil;
To day, the [illegible] widow
Forgets the need of toil!
To-day are houseless orphans,
Who cry for daily bread,
While shattered lies the right arm
By which they once were fed.

New horrors every morning
Are tingling in our ears:
Fresh towns are sacked and burning—
More homeless ones in tears!
A young Palmyra smoulders
Upon that thrice-doom'd soil;
Her daughters of their jewels
The lawless ones despoil.

Ye tender wives and mothers,
Whose lives with good are crowned—
Whose path with brightest blossoms
Is thickly clustered round—
Whose daughters, like queen lilies,
In golden glory shine,
Bowing in costly worship
At fashion's loftiest shrine—

One gem from our your casket,
One gleaming diamond fling
Into our humble coffers,
A free will offering.
The grateful tears of widows,
Each one a priceless gem,
Will be inwrought by angels
To form your diadem.

O, brothers! will you never
From your deep sleep arise,
And build anew those hamlets,
And pierce the very skies
With temples reared to Freedom,
Secured from ruthless hands,
While household altars cluster
Through all those western lands.

Then should poor slaughtered Freedom
From her deep slumber wake—
Shake off his mouldering cerements—
A deathless image take.
Then shall the heavens re-echo
The shouts of ransomed men,
That Freedom crucified
Hath risen to life again.