The "Colophonian Poet" is—"not to put too fine a point upon it"—Homer, who, according to some, was born at Colophos, in Asia Minor. The phrase "Pegasid quill" in this passage strengthens our opinion that this second portrait of Sir Thomas, which we give here, was intended to be a frontispiece to a second volume of poems. The similarity of diction between this "Invocation" and the speeches of Ancient Pistol is very great.
CHAPTER IV
Epigrams: Divine and Moral, and The Trissotetras
N 1641, Sir Thomas Urquhart published his first work—a volume of poems, entitled "Epigrams: Divine and Moral,"[151] and dedicated to the Marquis of Hamilton. The poems are divided into three books, two of which contain forty-five epigrams, while the third contains forty-four. Most of them are in iambic pentameters, and are for the greater part sextets in form; but though the versification is occasionally smooth, these compositions do little credit to the Muse who inspired them. They are, without an exception, pointless; and an epigram without a point is about as useless and exasperating as a needle without one.[152] It is somewhat remarkable that in his prose compositions the imagination of Sir Thomas seems quite unfettered, while in his poems it is under some such restraining influence as a strait-waistcoat is said to exercise upon a certain class of patients.
A wild legend, the origin of which is unknown, but which is utterly baseless, asserts that Urquhart "was laureated poet at Paris before he was three and twenty years of age."[153] We could hardly conceive of any responsible authorities being so far "left to themselves" as to do a deed like this. The story may be either the misapplication to Urquhart of some vague tradition of one of the feats of his hero, the Admirable Crichton, or of what he himself has actually recorded of the poet, Arthur Johnston.[154]
A modern critic, who has given Urquhart a full measure of praise, finds himself unable to say a word in favour of his poems. "This slender volume," he remarks, "gives not the slightest promise of talent. Its stanzas are indistinguished and indistinguishable. There is no reason why anyone should have written them, but, on the other hand, there is no reason why anyone should not. They express the usual commonplaces: the inevitableness of death, and the worth of endeavour. A mildly Horatian sentiment is dressed up in the tattered rags of Shakespearianism, and the surprise is that the author, whose prose is restrained by no consideration of sound or sense, should have deemed it worth while to print so tame a collection of exercises."[155]