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"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.
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