expresses the home-sickness of the spirit as yearningly as
And now my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils.
There are many details on which one would like to join issue with Sir Henry Newbolt, but his main contentions are so suggestive, his sympathies so catholic and generous, that it seems hardly worth while arguing with him about questions of scansion or of the relation of Blake to contemporary politics, or of the evil of anthologies. His book is the reply of a capable and honest man of letters to the challenge uttered to poets by Keats in The Fall of Hyperion, where Moneta demands:
What benfits canst thou, or all thy tribe
To the great world?
and declares:
None can usurp this height …
But those to whom the miseries of the world
Are misery, and will not let them rest.