"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.

-- THE END --