An Enigma

  "Seldom we find," says Solomon Don Dunce,
      "Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
    Through all the flimsy things we see at once
      As easily as through a Naples bonnet--
      Trash of all trash!--how _can_ a lady don it?
    Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff--
    Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
      Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it."
    And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
    The general tuckermanities are arrant
    Bubbles--ephemeral and _so_ transparent--
      But _this is_, now--you may depend upon it--
    Stable, opaque, immortal--all by dint
    Of the dear names that lie concealed within't.