you have come to my presence! the dangers, my son,
that have tossed and smitten you! Oh, how I have feared
lest you should come to harm in that realm of Libya!”
The son replied: “Your shade it was, father, your melancholy
shade, that, coming to me oft and oft, constrained 15
me to knock at these doors: here, in the Tyrrhene deep
my ships are riding at anchor. Let us grasp hand in
hand: let us, my father! Oh, withdraw not from my
embrace!” As he spoke, the streaming tears rolled down
his face. Thrice, as he stood, he essayed to fling his 20