Floating on all the ambient air,
From Seville’s gardens in their bloom,
Unless a voice I love is there.
“Were India’s realm before me laid,
I’d give it all might I recline
My saddened brow, my weary head,
Carlos, on that dear heart of thine—
And hear thy soft, low tones again
Fall like sweet music on my ear,
With strange bland influence to sustain