"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? 5
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 10
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.