XVIII.

This I say of me, but think of you, Love! 
This to you—­yourself my moon of poets! 
Ah, but that’s the world’s side, there’s the wonder,
Thus they see you, praise you, think they know you! 
There, in turn I stand with them and praise you—­
Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it. 
But the best is when I glide from out them,
Cross a step or two of dubious twilight,
Come out on the other side, the novel
Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of,
Where I hush and bless myself with silence.”

The transference from Florence to London was made in May.  In the summer “Aurora Leigh” was published, and met with an almost unparalleled success:  even Landor, most exigent of critics, declared that he was “half drunk with it,” that it had an imagination germane to that of Shakspere, and so forth.

The poem was dedicated to Kenyon, and on their homeward way the Brownings were startled and shocked to hear of his sudden death.  By the time they had arrived at Casa Guidi again they learned that their good friend had not forgotten them in the disposition of his large fortune.  To Browning he bequeathed six thousand, to Mrs. Browning four thousand guineas.  This loss was followed early in the ensuing year (1857) by the death of Mr. Barrett, steadfast to the last in his refusal of reconciliation with his daughter.

Winters and summers passed happily in Italy—­with one period of feverish anxiety, when the little boy lay for six weeks dangerously ill, nursed day and night by his father and mother alternately—­with pleasant occasionings, as the companionship for a season of Nathaniel Hawthorne and his family, or of weeks spent at Siena with valued and lifelong friends, W.W.  Story, the poet-sculptor, and his wife.

So early as 1858 Mrs. Hawthorne believed she saw the heralds of death in Mrs. Browning’s excessive pallor and the hectic flush upon the cheeks, in her extreme fragility and weakness, and in her catching, fluttering breath.  Even the motion of a visitor’s fan perturbed her.  But “her soul was mighty, and a great love kept her on earth a season longer.  She was a seraph in her flaming worship of heart.”  “She lives so ardently,” adds Mrs. Hawthorne, “that her delicate earthly vesture must soon be burnt up and destroyed by her soul of pure fire.”

Yet, notwithstanding, she still sailed the seas of life, like one of those fragile argonauts in their shells of foam and rainbow-mist which will withstand the rude surge of winds and waves.  But slowly, gradually, the spirit was o’erfretting its tenement.  With the waning of her strength came back the old passionate longing for rest, for quiescence from that “excitement from within,” which had been almost over vehement for her in the calm days of her unmarried life.