How many a soft and balmy eve,
In pleasant converse there,
Have I with Seville's mirthful sons,
And Seville's daughters fair,
Traversed those blooming bowers along,
On entering which are rude
Gigantic shapes in myrtles cut,
Of various attitude;
And rose-bay trees, in long arcades,
With oranges unite,
And shady labyrinths form, the which
To thefts of love invite;
And hidden jets of water spring
All sudden from the floor,
When trod the painted pebbles laid
In rich mosaic o'er,
That sprinkle on the stranger there,
While shouts of laughter rise,
From those who warn'd by former fate
Now shun such pleasantries!
In summer time, at close of day,
When mid the light cloud's fold,
The sun declines, encircling them
With scarlet and with gold,
That bright transparent heaven above,
