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 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.