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.