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 bonnetTrash
of all trash!- how can a lady don it?

Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuffOwl-
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 itStable,
opaque, immortal- all by dint
Of the dear names that he concealed within 't.