Corsica: the Isla Bonita

[24Shepherd24]

Some references for Corsica.

European cruise ports - Ajaccio, Corsica | allthegoodies.com
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kw8LS3_xbSw

Corsica. Ajaccio ("AY-YA-CHO") City Guide. Jean's video report for Cruise Doris Visits
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XlUbOOx0Pc8

Ajaccio Corsica, Amazing 4k video ultra hd FZ300
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=35tlKTUlFjw

Why Corsica became the murder capital of France
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5zXG94svOeQ

Corsica: Understanding France's complex relationship with its 'island of beauty'
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-TlDSqh7_lE

Corsica: Sun, Sea, Sand And Murder
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VRZpGg5Ip1c

[Mr Coucou]

I had wondered if there was a "Corsican Mafia"--- I guess there really is one. Thanks Shepherd, interesting.

[Bamagirl]

Originally Posted by 24Shepherd24

Ajaccio Corsica, Amazing 4k video ultra hd FZ300
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=35tlKTUlFjw

Thank you, Shepherd! I especially liked this one.

[24Shepherd24]

An interesting Google flyover of Ajaccio. It's easy to see why Alizee is so in love with her home city.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X1sV9rQ8DOQ

Edit:

Originally Posted by Mr Coucou

I had wondered if there was a "Corsican Mafia"--- I guess there really is one. Thanks Shepherd, interesting.

According to the video, there are 4 Mafia gangs in Corsica, possibly all in Ajaccio, but for so small a city that would be quite a crowd.

As a celebrity, I'm sure Alizee has been approached by them, possibly just so they could meet a star, possibly to shake the Lyonettes down for having a business in their territory. The video said the Mafia is mostly into real estate, so the dance studio might not have drawn their interest.

I think it's especially frightening that they are killing government officials. When I lived in Chicago as a boy, the Mafia murdered mostly other gangsters, so they weren't all that frightening. We would see them in the neighborhood. It was easy to recognize them because of the way they dressed. As a kid, I talked to some of them. They seemed like really nice guys. I understand Stalin was also a likable fellow despite having murdered a few millions people.

[Bigdan]

Just for Fun facts :
Yes, Corsican mafia exist since many years. There is a "corsican track" in JFK assassination....( The local mafia would have brought a Corsican killer would be unknown to the police)

[CleverCowboy]

I thought maybe they would have drone footage of Corsica in 4K and they do. Beautiful!




Also, as a Jeopardy fan, every now and then they have a question about Corsica. A few nights ago during the college championship tournament, they had this clue:

For its many fragrant flowers this French territory in the Mediterranean Sea is called The Scented Isle

What is Corsica? ::Applause because I knew it::

[Bamagirl]

This beautiful and haunting poem about Corsica was written by Anna Laetitia Barbauld in 1769, during a time when Corsica was trying to become independent.

http://www.poetryatlas.com/poetry/po...1/corsica.html



Corsica

--- A manly race
Of unsubmitting spirit, wise and brave;
Who still through bleeding ages struggled hard
To hold a generous undiminished state;
Too much in vain! -- James Thomas from The Seasons "Autumn"



Hail, generous Corsica! unconquered isle!
The fort of freedom; that amidst the waves
Stands like a rock of adamant, and dares
The wildest fury of the beating storm.

And are there yet, in this late sickly age,
Unkindly to the towering growths of virtue,
Such bold exalted spirits? Men whose deeds,
To the bright annals of old Greece opposed,
Would throw in shades her yet unrivaled name,
And dim the lustre of her fairest page!
And glows the flame of Liberty so strong
In this lone speck of earth! this spot obscure,
Shaggy with woods, and crusted o'er with rock,
By slaves surrounded, and by slaves oppressed!
What then should Britons feel?—should they not catch
The warm contagion of heroic ardour,
And kindle at a fire so like their own?

Such were the working thoughts which swelled the breast
Of generous Boswel; when with nobler aim
And views beyond the narrow beaten track
By trivial fancy trod, he turned his course
From polished Gallia's soft delicious vales,
From the grey reliques of imperial Rome,
From her long galleries of laureled stone,
Her chiseled heroes and her marble gods,
Whose dumb majestic pomp yet awes the world,
To animated forms of patriot zeal;
Warm in the living majesty of virtue;
Elate with fearless spirit; firm; resolved;
By fortune nor subdued, nor awed by power.

How raptured fancy burns, while warm in thought
I trace the pictured landscape; while I kiss
With pilgrim lips devout the sacred soil
Stained with the blood of heroes. Cyrnus, hail!
Hail to thy rocky, deep indented shores,
And pointed cliffs, which hear the chafing deep
Incessant foaming round their shaggy sides.
Hail to thy winding bays, thy sheltering ports
And ample harbours, which inviting stretch
Their hospitable arms to every sail:
Thy numerous streams, that bursting from the cliffs
Down the steep channeled rock impetuous pour
With grateful murmur: on the fearful edge
Of the rude precipice, thy hamlets brown
And straw-roofed cots, which from the level vale
Scarce seen, amongst the craggy hanging cliffs
Seem like an eagle's nest aerial built.
Thy swelling mountains, brown with solemn shade
Of various trees, that wave their giant arms
O'er the rough sons of freedom; lofty pines,
And hardy fir, and ilex ever green,
And spreading chesnut, with each humbler plant,
And shrub of fragrant leaf, that clothes their sides
With living verdure; whence the clustering bee
Extracts her golden dews: the shining box,
And sweet-leaved myrtle, aromatic thyme,
The prickly juniper, and the green leaf
Which feeds the spinning worm; while glowing bright
Beneath the various foliage, wildly spreads
The arbutus, and rears his scarlet fruit
Luxuriant, mantling o'er the craggy steeps;
And thy own native laurel crowns the scene.
Hail to thy savage forests, awful, deep;
Thy tangled thickets, and thy crowded woods,
The haunt of herds untamed; which sullen bound
From rock to rock with fierce unsocial air,
And wilder gaze, as conscious of the power
That loves to reign amid the lonely scenes
Of unquelled nature: precipices huge,
And tumbling torrents; trackless deserts, plains
Fenced in with guardian rocks, whose quarries teem
With shining steel, that to the cultured fields
And sunny hills which wave with bearded grain
Defends their homely produce. Liberty,
The mountain Goddess, loves to range at large
Amid such scenes, and on the iron soil
Prints her majestic step. For these she scorns
The green enameled vales, the velvet lap
Of smooth savannahs, where the pillowed head
Of Luxury reposes; balmy gales,
And bowers that breathe of bliss. For these, when first
This isle emerging like a beauteous gem
From the dark bosom of the Tyrrhene main
Reared its fair front, she marked it for her own,
And with her spirit warmed. Her genuine sons,
A broken remnant, from the generous stock
Of ancient Greece, from Sparta's sad remains,
True to their high descent, preserved unquenched
The sacred fire through many a barbarous age:
Whom, nor the iron rod of cruel Carthage,
Nor the dread sceptre of imperial Rome,
Nor bloody Goth, nor grisly Saracen,
Nor the long galling yoke of proud Liguria,
Could crush into subjection. Still unquelled
They rose superior, bursting from their chains,
And claimed man's dearest birthright, liberty:
And long, through many a hard unequal strife
Maintained the glorious conflict; long withstood,
With single arm, the whole collected force
Of haughty Genoa, and ambitious Gaul.
And shall withstand it—Trust the faithful Muse!
It is not in the force of mortal arm,
Scarcely in fate, to bind the struggling soul
That galled by wanton power, indignant swells
Against oppression; breathing great revenge,
Careless of life, determined to be free.
And favouring Heaven approves: for see the Man,
Born to exalt his own, and give mankind
A glimpse of higher natures: just, as great;
The soul of council, and the nerve of war;
Of high unshaken spirit, tempered sweet
With soft urbanity, and polished grace,
And attic wit, and gay unstudied smiles:
Whom Heaven in some propitious hour endowed
With every purer virtue: gave him all
That lifts the hero, or adorns the man.
Gave him the eye sublime; the searching glance,
Keen, scanning deep, that smites the guilty soul
As with a beam from heaven; on his brow
Serene, and spacious front, set the broad seal
Of dignity and rule; then smiled benign
On this fair pattern of a God below,
High wrought, and breathed into his swelling breast
The large ambitious wish to save his country.

O beauteous title to immortal fame!
The man devoted to the public, stands
In the bright records of superior worth
A step below the skies: if he succeed,
The first fair lot which earth affords, is his;
And if he falls, he falls above a throne.
When such their leader, can the brave despair?
Freedom the cause, and Paoli the chief!
Success to your fair hopes! A British Muse,
Though weak and powerless, lifts her fervent voice,
And breathes a prayer for your success. O could
She scatter blessings as the morn sheds dews,
To drop upon your heads! But patient hope
Must wait the appointed hour; secure of this,
That never with the indolent and weak
Will Freedom deign to dwell; she must be seized
By that bold arm that wrestles for the blessing:
'Tis Heaven's best prize, and must be bought with blood.
When the storm thickens, when the combat burns,
And pain and death in every horrid shape
That can appal the feeble, prowl around,
Then Virtue triumphs; then her towering form
Dilates with kindling majesty; her mien
Breathes a diviner spirit, and enlarged
Each spreading feature, with an ampler port
And bolder tone, exulting, rides the storm,
And joys amidst the tempest. Then she reaps
Her golden harvest; fruits of nobler growth
And higher relish than meridian suns
Can ever ripen; fair, heroic deeds,
And godlike action. 'Tis not meats and drinks,
And balmy airs, and vernal suns and showers,
That feed and ripen minds; 'tis toil and danger;
And wrestling with the stubborn gripe of fate;
And war, and sharp distress, and paths obscure
And dubious. The bold swimmer joys not so
To feel the proud waves under him, and beat
With strong repelling arm the billowy surge;
The generous courser does not so exult
To toss his floating mane against the wind,
And neigh amidst the thunder of the war,
As Virtue to oppose her swelling breast
Like a firm shield against the darts of fate.
And when her sons in that rough school have learned
To smile at danger, then the hand that raised
Shall hush the storm, and lead the shining train
Of peaceful years in bright procession on.
Then shall the shepherd's pipe, the Muse's lyre,
On Cyrnus' shores be heard: her grateful sons
With loud acclaim and hymns of cordial praise
Shall hail their high deliverers; every name
To Virtue dear be from oblivion snatched
And placed among the stars: but chiefly thine,
Thine, Paoli, with sweetest sound shall dwell
On their applauding lips; thy sacred name,
Endeared to long posterity, some Muse,
More worthy of the theme, shall consecrate
To after-ages, and applauding worlds
Shall bless the godlike man who saved his country.

So vainly wished, so fondly hoped the Muse:
Too fondly hoped. The iron fates prevail,
And Cyrnus is no more. Her generous sons,
Less vanquished than o'erwhelmed, by numbers crushed,
Admired, unaided fell. So strives the moon
In dubious battle with the gathering clouds,
And strikes a splendour through them; till at length
Storms rolled on storms involve the face of heaven
And quench her struggling fires. Forgive the zeal
That, too presumptuous, whispered better things,
And read the book of destiny amiss.
Not with the purple colouring of success
Is virtue best adorned: the attempt is praise.
There yet remains a freedom, nobler far
Than kings or senates can destroy or give;
Beyond the proud oppressor's cruel grasp
Seated secure, uninjured, undestroyed;
Worthy of Gods:….the freedom of the mind.

---Anna Laetitia Barbauld

[Scruffydog777]

I think that's the longest poem I've ever read. Anna Barbauld was quite a woman. Born in England, not far from Nottingham, she learned Latin, Greek, French and Italian. She had her father teach her the classics. There weren't many young women where she grew up, so she lived sort of a boy's life as far as education, learning many things not deemed necessary for a woman at the time.

She must've visited Corsica at some point. Wikipedia speaks of her doing a tour of France, but that wasn't until 1785 and the poem was written in 1769.

She speaks of Pasquale Paoli, a Corsican statesman and patriot, so she must've been well aware of the political situation there.

It was in 1769 that Corsica was ceded back to France which probably was part if not all of the reason for her writing this poem

"There yet remains a freedom, nobler far
Than kings or senates can destroy or give;
Beyond the proud oppressor's cruel grasp
Seated secure, uninjured, undestroyed;"

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anna_Laetitia_Barbauld

[Bamagirl]

Originally Posted by Scruffydog777

I think that's the longest poem I've ever read. Anna Barbauld was quite a woman.

It certainly is long! I read it through the first time quickly, then again much more slowly. I think it’s the kind of poem that you get more from every time you look at it.
I’d love to learn more about Anna Barbauld. I agree she seems fascinating. It occurs to me that it would be so cool if a movie was made about her life...starring Alizée, of course! Maybe a musical...after all, poetry and music lyrics are really the same thing.
I meant to add that “Cyrnus,” mentioned in the last stanza, is another word for Corsica.

[24Shepherd24]

Originally Posted by CleverCowboy

I thought maybe they would have drone footage of Corsica in 4K and they do. Beautiful!

Gorgeous video. It's no wonder why Alizee insist on living on Corsica.