surge, where gale and pilot bid us go. Now rising from
the wave are seen the woods of Zacynthos,[156] and Dulichium,
and Samos, and the tall cliffs of Neritos: we fly
past the rocks of Ithaca, Laertes’ realm, breathing a curse 20
for the land that nursed the hard heart of Ulysses. Soon,
too, the storm-capped peaks of Leucata dawn on the
view, and their Apollo, the terror of sailors. In our
weariness we make for him, and enter the little town:
our anchors are thrown from the prow, our sterns ranged 25
on the coast.