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.