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 I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane Of Melrose rise in ruined pride. The quiet lake, and balmy air, The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree, Are they still such as once they were, Or is the dreary change in me? Alas! the warped and broken board, How can it bear the painter's dye! The harp of strained and tuneless chord, How to the minstrel's skill reply! To aching eyes each landscape lowers, To feverish pulse each gale blows chill; And Araby or Eden's bowers Were barren as this moorland hill." There, too, is _Minto Hill_, as modest and shapely and smooth as Clytie's shoulders, and _Earlston Black Hill_, with Cowdenknowes at its foot; and there, standing stark and upright as a warder, is the stout old _Smailholme Tower_, seen and seeing all around. It is quite curious how unmistakable and important it looks at what must be twenty and more miles. It is now ninety years since that "lonely infant," who has sung its awful joys, was found in a thunderstorm, as we all know, lying on the soft grass at the foot of the grey old Strength, clapping his hands at each flash, and shouting, "Bonny! bonny!"