The Evening Hour.
{"character_count": 895, "word_count": 161, "ccnet_language_score": [0.8726999759674072], "ccnet_perplexity": [1605.9000244140625], "fasttext_language": ["en"]}
BY THEODORE A. GocLD. How sweet it is, at close of day,

 To view the suns decling ray; While in the wide expanse of blue,

 Bright cloudlets aoat of every hue. O can the heart at such a time,

 Conceive one thought, of wrong, or crime1 No! for our better will has power,

 In the soft, solemn, even hour. At such a lime sweet Fancy fiings Around the soul, her gauzy wings; And transient visions, soit and fair,

 Float round us, in the silent air. Then ketrospecton will unroll

 Before lhe mind her ta-nished scroll; l he past, like spring. hath sun and shower, So Memory tells, at ey'ning hour. 'Tis then, the vilest heart may feel,

 Some heavenly impulse, round it steal-- Tanning 10 flame, the feeble spark

 or virtue in that bosom dark I'd choose, when life's strange dream past At such time to breathe my last Yielding, like some frail, fading flower, My breath, at evenlng's holy hour.