AN ENIGMA (1848)

      "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.