JUSTICE.

AN ODE.

BY JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.

I.

HILD of the dust! to yonder skies
Thy vision canst thou turn?
And trace with perishable eyes,
The seats where Seraphs burn?
There, by the throne of God on high,
An angel form canst thou descry,
Ineffably sublime?

Or is the effulgence of the Light,
Intense, insufferably bright,

For beings born of Time?

II.

That angel form, in light enshrin'd,
Beside the living throne,

IS JUSTICE, still to heaven confin'd,—
For God is just alone.

This Angel, of celestial birth,

Her faint resemblance, here on earth

Has sent, mankind to guide

Yet though obscur'd her brightest beams,
Still with too vivid ray she gleams

For Mortals to abide.

III.

When the first Father of our Race

Against his God rebell'd,

Was banished from his Maker's face,

From Paradise expell'd;

For guilt unbounded to atone,

What bound could punishment have known,

Had Justice dealt the blow?

Sure, to infernal regions hurl'd,

His doom had been a flaming world

Of never ending woe!

IV.

But Mercy, from the throne of God,
Extended forth her hand;
Withheld th' exterminating rod,

And quenched the flaming brand:
His blood, the blest Redeemer gave,
Th' apostate victim's blood to save,
And fill Redemption's plan:
Angels proclaim'd in choral songs,
"Justice to God alone belongs,

And Mercy pardons Man."

V.

When, issuing from the savage Wild,
Man forms the social tie,

Justice severe, and Mercy mild,
To bind the compact vie;

Of each his own, the parting hedge
Stern Justice takes the solemn pledge;

The sacred vow enjoins.

While Mercy, with benignant face,
Bids man his fellow man embrace,

And Heart with Heart entwines.

VI.

To both united is the trust

Of human Laws consign'd; One teaches mortals to be just;

The other, to be kind;

Yet shall not Justice always wear
The garb of punishment, or bear
The avenging sword to smite:
Nor Mercy's ever gladdening eye
Permit the Ruffian to defy

Th' unerring Rule of Right.

VII.

To Justice, dearer far the part

To tune the plausive Voice;

Of Virtue to delight the heart,
And bid the good rejoice.

To yield the meed of grateful Praise,―
The deathless monument to raise,
To honor Virtue dead;

Or wreathe the chaplet of renown;
The laurel or the mural crown,
For living Virtue's head.

VIII.

Here, to defend his native land,
His sword the Patriot draws;
Here the mock Hero lifts his hand
To aid a Tyrant's cause.
When, meeting on the field of blood
They pour the sanguinary flood

Whose triumph waves unfurl'd ?
Alas! let Cheronea tell;

Or plains where godlike Brutus fell,
Or Cæsar won the world.

IX.

In arms, when hostile Nations rise
And blood the strife decides,
'Tis brutal Force awards the prize,
Her head while Justice hides.
But short is Force's triumph base :
Justice unveils her awful face,

And hurls him from the steep;

Strips from his brow the wreath of Fame, And after-ages load his name

With curses loud and deep.

X.

Behold the letter'd Sage devote
The labors of his mind,

His country's welfare to promote,
And benefit Mankind.

Lo! from the blackest caves of Hell,
A phalanx fierce of monsters fell,
Combine their fearful bands--
His fame asperse, his toils assail;
Till Justice holds aloft her scale

And shields him from their hands.

XI.

Of excellence, in every clime,
'Tis thus the lot is cast;
Passion usurps the present time,
But Justice rules the past:
Envy, and Selfishness, and Pride,
The passing hours of man divide
With unresisted sway;

But Justice comes, with noiseless tread,
O'ertakes the filmy Spider's thread,

And sweeps the net away.