hospitality is unbounded, and a stranger has but to appear to receive a welcome that will cheer his heart, and make his colder Saxon blood warm towards the ancient race that once peopled the whole island, but were driven by overwhelming numbers to the mountain fastnesses, where still they live, with kindly feelings towards the descendants of their forefather's enemies and vanquishers, yet still cherishing their own language, the language of their hearts; honouring their bards, and loving their ancient ballads, and ofttimes sighing over the fate of their princes and warriors—and, fain would they have a Prince once more to reign among, as well as over them;-full many a heart would echo the song

Come princely Albert, let the sound
Of Minstrelsy once more resound
In royal halls, in Cymru's land;
Among thy mountains, still the hand
Of many a Bard will sweep the strings
Of Cambria's harp, and tell of things
That happened in days long gone by;
Pause o'er the tale, and wipe the eye:
For, though the time has pass'd away,
When Celtic chiefs, in proud array,
Trod the same mountains which now rise
In tow'ring grandeur towards the skies,
And hurled defiance at the foe

And nobly said-" Come weal or woe,
We'll fight for our lov'd mountain land
Against the Anglo-Norman band;
We'll live the life of the free and brave

Or die for the land we cannot save."

Though years have roll'd away since then,

And those days ne'er can come again,
Except in visions of the past,

Which whisper "naught was made to last;"

I

Though memory so oft has flung
A shadow on the wall, where hung
In other days, the well-strung bow;
Which echoed, as old legends show
Our kings' and warriors' martial tread,
Who now rank with the mighty dead;
And though remembrance loves to dwell,
Upon their names, beloved so well;
We now look to that higher pow'r,
With whom an age is but an hour:
And feel that His was the decree
That gave the Saxon victory-
That caus'd the tide of pow'er to flow,
That laid our native princes low.

But yet, we like not that our land,
So rich in beauty, still should stand
Without a palace for our Prince;
For ruins tell that long time since
Our own lov'd kings had stately halls
And towers high, and massive walls-
And we would now a castle raise
Mighty as those in early days;
Where our young Albert may resort,
When wearied with the crowded court;
In our sweet valleys he might roam,
And 'mong our mountains find a home;
Gaze on the heav'ns where countless roll
Myriads of stars. From pole to pole
Perchance his name, as "Prince of Wales”
Will long be known; and with the tales
Which may, in other days, be told
Of Britain's heir, we would unfold,
How, in his fine Welsh castle dwelt
Our noble Prince; and how he felt,
That he was thron'd in hearts as true,
As yon high vault is bright and blue,
When mid our ancient race he stood;
In whose brave hearts the Celtic blood
Flows warm and free-and, drop by drop
We'd give it for our country's hope.

One other circumstance there is in connection with the Welsh, we must not pass by, although our admiration of this people and country has already largely drawn upon the brief space allotted to September, in common with the other months, with which we would fain have lingered; but even as we marked down their successive beauties, they fled from us, and became things passed by, and

gone.

Ungrateful indeed, would it be to overlook the fact that the noble Celtic chieftain who once inhabited the frowning fortress, (3) of which but a few rude fragments alone remain, high above the peaceful vale of Llangollen; when he went to Rome with others of his family, as hostages for his son, the great Caractacus, and became a Christian, carried with him on his return to Britain the knowledge of the true faith he had learned (probably from St. Paul himself) to his savage and benighted countrymen. The name of "Bran the blessed" will be remembered in Wales as long as Celtic blood flows, and the spirit of Christianity dwells among a people, whose hearts warm, and beat high, when they point to the lone ruin of Castell Dinas Bran, and proudly tell the listening stranger, that there dwelt, in other days, one of their own great monarchs; while history tells us that while captive in Rome, that monarch learned how to bear the cross that should win him, by faith in Him who died upon it, an inheritance far richer than the one he left in Britain, an "inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away."

Oh that the light he, and others, kindled in those early days, still burned brightly and steadily in the

hearts of all the people of England. Oh! that they valued and maintained, as they ought, the exalted privileges, which the pure Christianity thus introduced among the ancient British race, conferred on the British. islands but alas! in these latter days, the true, pure light is being rendered less distinct by the false meteors which are lit in Jesuitical council-chambers, and sent forth, like a light in the marsh, to lure travellers from the right path, and from the ancient faith of their forefathers and have we not been told that such things should come to pass, ere "the Lord Jesus shall be revealed from heaven with his mighty angels, in flaming fire taking vengeance on them that know not God, and that obey not the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ ?" Yes-we have been warned that "that day shall not come, except there come a falling away first, and that man of sin be revealed, the son of perdition; who opposeth and exalteth himself above all that is called God, or that is worshipped; so that he, as God, sitteth in the temple of God, shewing himself that he is God."

"Oh! may we wait, and watch, and pray,

Look up, and, free from fear,

Our life be all devotedness,

Till He our Lord appear." *

* E. Bickersteth.

October.

How often are the words "fallen grandeur" used, when we are gazing upon the mementos of other days, the ruined abbeys and castles which are so thickly scattered over our country-how applicable would they be to forest scenery in the month of October!

A wood at this season forcibly reminds us of the magnificent ruin, that stands to testify of the power and grandeur of the feudal times. The trunks of the trees remain, when the last evening of October is closing in, strong as ever: the branches bend and form the graceful arch, or grotesque loop-hole, as when the green leaves opened in their fresh beauty, and formed a rare and curious roof to the noble aisles of the forest; like as the massive tower of the feudal castle, or the remains of a monastic edifice, with its windows of richly-carved stone, and door-ways of architectural magnificence yet stand, though dismantled of their ornaments and their costly ceilings. The light of heaven now streams in, and illumines the bare castle walls, which, in earlier days echoed the merciless decree of the proud victor, and