"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 he concealed within 't.