Mountain scenery was seldom visited or described.

Michael Drayton (1731) wrote an ode on the Peak, in Derbyshire: 

  Though on the utmost Peak
  A while we do remain,
  Amongst the mountains bleak
  Exposed to sleet and rain,
  No sport our hours shall break
  To exercise our vein.

It is clear that he preferred his comfort to everything, for he goes on: 

  Yet many rivers clear
  Here glide in silver swathes,
  And what of all most dear
  Buxton’s delicious baths,
  Strong ale and noble chear
  T’ assuage breem winter’s scathes.

Thomas Carew (1639) sings: 

  Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
  When June is past, the fading rose,
  For in your beauties’ orient deep
  These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. 
  Ask me no more whither do stray
  The golden atoms of the day,
  For in pure love Heaven did prepare
  Those powders to enrich your hair. 
  Ask me no more whither doth haste
  The nightingale, when May is past,
  For in your sweet dividing throat
  She winters and keeps warm her note. 
  Ask me no more where these stars shine
  That downwards fall in dead of night,
  For in your eyes they sit, and there
  Fixed become, as in their sphere. 
  Ask me no more if east or west
  The phoenix builds her spicy nest,
  For unto you at last she flies
  And in your fragrant bosom dies.

William Drummond (1746) avowed a taste which he knew to be very unfashionable: 

  Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove,
  Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own
  Though solitary, who is not alone,
  But doth converse with that eternal love. 
  O how more sweet is birds’ harmonious moan
  Or the soft sobbings of the widow’d dove,
  Than those smooth whisp’rings near a prince’s throne.... 
  O how more sweet is zephyr’s wholesome breath
  And sighs perfum’d, which new-born flowers unfold.

Another sonnet, to a nightingale, says: 

  Sweet bird, that sing’st away the early hours
  Of winters past or coming void of care,
  Well pleased with delights which present are,
  Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers;
  To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers
  Thou thy Creator’s goodness dost declare,
  And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare,
  A stain to human sense in sin that lowers,
  What soul can be so sick which by thy songs
  Attir’d in sweetness, sweetly is not driven
  Quite to forget earth’s turmoils, spites, and wrongs?

He greets Spring: 

  Sweet Spring, thou turn’st with all thy goodly train
  Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers;
  The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,
  The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers.

Robert Blair (1746) sings in The Grave: