165 
THE JASMINE. 
Hère Jasmine spreads the silver flower, 
To deck the wall, or weave the bower." 
The year growing ancient. 
Shakspeèe. 
The woods now wear the glorious clothing of Autumn ; 
a garb of richest gold, here shading into palest 
yellow, and then deepening into deepest brown ! 
Yet their gorgeous array wakens but a melancholy 
pleasure; tbe hues are those of deatb ! The at¬ 
mosphère is chilled, the days are shortened, every 
trace of Summer is fled, and decay is everywhere 
perceptible. Whilst we see nature fading around us, 
our thoughts naturally dwell on our own quickly- 
passing existence. 
“ Like the leaf 
When sweeps the annual death-blast o’er the woods, 
We fall when Heaven decrees. the blow.” 
We accept the scene as a type of our own dis¬ 
solution, and muse on death, the tomb, and (oh ! 
