Weekly Trinity Journal

Weekly Trinity Journal.
Prentice to Greeley.
[George D. Prentice, the veteran editor of the Louisville
Journal, pays a beautiful poetical tribute to Horace Greeley
in the last number of the New York Ledger. Bravely has
Greeley battled his way to his present proud position, as the
greatest journalist in the world. His life should be held up,
both in prose and verse, to the emulation of young men.
This effusion is peculiarly interesting as the honestly paid
tribute of one journalist to another. It shows that however
the small fry of journalists may devour one another. the men
who are worthy of their profession rise above petty jealousies
and sometimes have esteem and sincere friendship for other
editors who disagree with them in politics.

TO A POLITICAL OPPONENT.
I send thee, Greeley, words of cheer,
Thou bravest, truest, best of men;
For I have marked thy strong career,
As traced by thy own sturdy pen;
I've seen thy struggles with the foes
That dared thee to the desperate fight,
And loved to watch thy goodly blows
Dealt for the cause thou deem'st the right.
Thou'st dared to stand against the wrong
When many faltered by thy side;
In thy own strength hast dared be strong,
Nor on another's arm relied,
Thy own bold thoughts thou'st dared to think,
Thy own great purpose avowed;
And none have ever seen thee shrink
From the fierce surges of the crowd.
Thou, all unaided and alone,
Did'st take thy way in life's young years,
With no kind hand clasped in thy own,
No gentle voice to soothe thy tears,
But thy high heart no power could tame,
And thou hast never ceased to feel,
Within thy veins a sacred flame
That turned thy iron nerves to steel.
I know that they are not exempt
From all the weaknesses of earth,
For passion comes to rouse and tempt
The truest souls of mortal birth,
But thou hast well fulfilled thy trust,
In spite of love, and hope and fear,
And e'en the tempest's thunder gust
But clears thy spirit's atmosphere.
Thy still art in thy manhood's prime,
Still foremost 'mid thy fellow men,
Though in each year of all thy time
Thou hast compressed three score and ten,
Oh, may each blessed sympathy,
Breathed on thee with a tear and sigh,
A sweet flower in thy pathway be,
A bright star in thy clear blue sky.