AN ENIGMA.

ELDOM 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.