The mountains know nothing of his soul: they amuse themselves with him; they are even half angry with him for his intrusion--a foreigner who dares an entrance into their untrespassed world.

Tennyson could not have thought that way.
It is true the mountains are alive in the poet's thought, but not with the poet's life: nor does he touch them with his sentiment.
Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement Still moving with you; For, ever some new head and heart of them Thrusts into view To observe the intruder; you see it If quickly you turn And, before they escape you surprise them.
They grudge you should learn How the soft plains they look on, lean over And love (they pretend)-- Cower beneath them.
Total apartness from us! Nature mocking, surprising us; watching us from a distance, even pleased to see us going to our destruction.

We may remember how the hills look grimly on Childe Roland when he comes to the tower.

The very sunset comes back to see him die: before it left, The dying sunset kindled through a cleft: The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay .-- Then, as if they loved to see the death of their quarry, cried, without one touch of sympathy: "Now stab and end the creature--to the heft!" And once, so divided from our life is her life, she pities her own case and refuses our pity.

Man cannot help her.