The strait becomes more and more beautiful as the sun-set light begins to fall upon it. Sailing-boats flit past, breasting the waves; they pass into the distance with the golden gleam of the setting sun upon them; isolated rocks tower darkly out of the water, and the mountains of Sardinia are tinged with violet. Directly opposite stand the fair hills of Tempio and Limbara; yonder the heights which conceal Sassari; on the left, a magnificent mountain-cone, the name of which I cannot discover. The evening sun falls brightly on the neighbouring coasts, but with full effulgence on the nearest Sardinian town of Longo Sardo. A tower is visible at its entrance. I clearly discern the houses, and would willingly imagine those flickering lines of shadow to be Sardinians promenading. In a calm night, they tell me that the beating of drums in Longo Sardo may be heard. I counted six towers along the coast; Castello Sando, and Porto Torres, the nearest towns in the direction of Sassari, were invisible. My hospitable Lorenzo had studied three years in Sassari, knew the Sardinian dialect, and could give me much information about the people. 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.