The mystic treasures of her matron breast,
Bread for her children, gems like living flame,
Sapphires, whose azure emulates the skies,
And dust of gold. Yet there's a curtain'd path
Which the unfettered denizens of air
Have not descried, nor even the piercing eye
Of the black vulture seen. The lion's whelps
In their wide roaming, nor their fiercer sire
Have never trod it.
There's a Hand that bares