To sit on rocks, to muse o’er flood and fell,
  To slowly trace the forest’s shady scene.... 
  To climb the trackless mountain all unseen
  With the wild flock that never needs a fold,
  Alone o’er steeps and foaming falls to lean,—­
  This is not solitude; ’tis but to hold
  Converse with Nature’s charms, and view her stores unroll’d. 
  But ’midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
  To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,
  And roam along, the world’s tired denizen,
  With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ... 
  This is to be alone—­this, this is solitude.

His preference for wild scenery shews here: 

  Dear Nature is the kindest mother still,
  Though always changing, in her aspect mild;
  From her bare bosom let me take my fill,
  Her never-wean’d, though not her favour’d child. 
  O she is fairest in her features wild,
  Where nothing polish’d dares pollute her path;
  To me by day or night she ever smiled,
  Though I have mark’d her when none other hath,
  And sought her more and more, and loved her best in wrath.

He observes everything—­now ‘the billows’ melancholy flow’ under the bows of the ship, now the whole scene at Zitza: 

  Where’er we gaze, around, above, below,
  What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found! 
  Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound,
  And bluest skies that harmonize the whole;
  Beneath, the distant torrent’s rushing sound
  Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll
  Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul.

This is full of poetic vision: 

  Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove,
  And weary waves retire to gleam at rest,
  How brown the foliage of the green hill’s grove,
  Nodding at midnight o’er the calm bay’s breast,
  As winds come lightly whispering from the west,
  Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep’s serene;—­
  Here Harold was received a welcome guest;
  Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene,
  For many a job could he from Night’s soft presence glean.

Feeling himself ‘the most unfit of men to herd with man,’ he is happy only with Nature: 

  Once more upon the waters! yet once more! 
  And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
  That knows his rider.  Welcome to the roar! 
  Swift be their guidance, wheresoe’er it lead.

  Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends;
  Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home;
  Where a blue sky and glowing clime extends,
  He had the passion and the power to roam;
  The desert, forest, cavern, breaker’s foam,
  Were unto him companionship; they spake
  A mutual language, clearer than the tome
  Of his land’s tongue, which he would oft forsake
  For Nature’s pages glass’d by sunbeams on the lake.

Again: