Dec. 13th.—Made the bay. On the first appearance of the land it put me in mind of the following lines in Thomson’s Hymn on the Seasons:—
“Should fate command me to the farthest verge
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes,
Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beams
Flame on th’ Atlantic Isles, ’tis nought to me,
Since God is ever present, ever felt,
In the void waste as in the city full,
And where He vital spreads, there must be joy.”
Appearance of the land before the entrance of the harbour, mountainous and woody. At 7 p.m. came to an anchor at the mouth of the harbour. The darkness of the night prevented our going in. The hills surrounding illuminated with the most vivid lightning I ever saw, equally beautiful as awful.