The view from the top reaches from the huge Harestane Broadlaw—nearly as high as Ben Lomond—whose top is as flat as a table, and would make a race-course of two miles, and where the clouds are still brooding, to the Cheviot; and from the Maiden Paps in Liddesdale, and that wild huddle of hills at Moss Paul, to Dunse Law, and the weird Lammermoors. There is Ruberslaw, always surly and dark. The Dunion, beyond which lies Jedburgh. There are the Eildons, with their triple heights; and you can get a glimpse of the upper woods of Abbotsford, and the top of the hill above Cauldshiels Loch, that very spot where the "wondrous potentate,"—when suffering from languor and pain, and beginning to break down under his prodigious fertility,—composed those touching lines:—
"The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill
In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet;
The westland wind is hushed and still;
The lake lies sleeping at my feet.
Yet not the landscape to mine eye
Bears those bright hues that once it bore,
Though evening, with her richest dye,
Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.
With listless look along the plain