eldom 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.