Long silent sat we on the hill together, And gazed upon the foam-fringed coasts the while; And on the deep-blue of the narrow waters That part Sardinia from her sister isle.
How passing beautiful art thou, Sardegna! Whom the luxuriant myrtles fondly crown, And sparkling zones of snowy shell engirdle, Corsica's sun-burnt sister, wild and brown.
Red reefs and craggy islets round thee hanging, Rude capes that cleave the sea with zig-zag line, —Their crimson cliffs thou wearest in thy beauty, Like blood-red necklace of the coral fine.
My friend Lorenzo, yonder purple mountains They beckon in their gracious calm to me— They stir my bosom with a fiery longing, And my heart leaps to cross that narrow sea.
Whereto my good Lorenzo thus made answer, And spoke low to himself, with doubting air: "Ah! the fair mountains of Limbara yonder— The pictured lies—only afar are fair.
"They seem like sapphires in the magic distance— Like wondrous crystal domes they kiss the sky; But when the weary, spell-drawn wanderer nears them, They throw the purple and the glitter by.
"They offer you their gray sides, rude and naked, Save where the tangling briers harsh cov'ring lend; With tempests threaten you, and with abysses, —Like life—too like the cheats of life, my friend."
—Yon leaden level stretching to the margin, Laughs to me, winsome in its hue of gold, How the Sardinian lives, my friend Lorenzo, In his fair island, fain would I be told.
"Wooded the highlands as you travel inland, The little yellow towns in verdure hide, The Catalonian drives—their bells low tinkling— His train of mules along the mountain side.
"O'er his swart face he slouches the sombrero, Pistols and dagger in his belt he wears; In his old Latin tongue he hums a ballad, And onwards to its time he slowly fares.
"But if far southward to the strand you wander, Where Cagliari lies, 'mid rocky bays, There, in the hamlets, chants the darker Moro, To castanet and tambourine his lays.
"From Algesiras comes the Moorish pagan, His falt'ring accent tells the distant land, He shakes his tabour, dances round the fan-palm, The brown Sardinian maiden in his hand."
How perceptible in Bonifazio is the vicinity of the third great Romanic nation, Spain! My room is covered with pictures about Columbus, which have long Spanish explanations, and now and then one meets a Sardinian who speaks the Catalonian dialect. Both islands—in former epochs connected, but now torn asunder—are conveniently situated for the smuggling trade. The very favourable position of Bonifazio would undoubtedly have raised it to early prosperity had trade been free. The surveillance is extremely strict, as even the bandits of both islands maintain communication with each other, although it seldom happens that Sardinians seek an asylum in the little Corsica, as it does not afford means of support. Many Corsican avengers, on the contrary, take refuge among the Sardinian hills. The police in Bonifazio are very vigilant. My pass was never asked throughout the whole of Corsica, except in the southerly-lying Sartene, and in Bonifazio. A land-owner had been my fellow-traveller from Cape Corso to Bonifazio; and as he very kindly offered me his boat, which lay at Propriano, in which to return to Bastia, and also put his house at Cape Corso at my service, I invited him to share my spacious room, which was much superior to his own miserable lodging. This man had now the honour to pass for a bandit, who, under some good pretext, was desirous to pass over to Sardinia.