Wearies with vainly poring on the dark.
Ath. Look.
Ul.Ay, the vapours lift, the highlands loom,
The air obeys thee: thro’ its thinning veils
The figure of some mountain jags the sky;
And those should be my hills: ’tis Neritos,
’Tis Ithaca indeed.
120
Ath.’Tis Ithaca.
Ul. O Blessed Light, that unto all men’s eyes