From Heine's Book of Songs, translated by Charles G. Leland, 1864, pp. 71-72. This is more loyal to the original, but not a singable translation.

ON the wings of song far sweeping,
Heart's dearest, with me thou'lt go
Away where the Ganges is creeping:
Its loveliest garden I know,--

A garden where roses are burning
In the moonlight all silent there;
Where the lotus-flowers are yearning
For their sister beloved and fair.

The violets titter, caressing,
Peeping up as the planets appear,
And the roses, their warm love confessing,
Whisper words, soft-perfumed, to each ear.

And, gracefully lurking or leaping,
The gentle gazelles come round;
While afar, deep rushing and sweeping,
The waves of the Ganges sound.

We'll lie there, in slumber sinking
'Neath the palm-trees by the stream,
Rapture and rest deep drinking,
Dreaming the happiest dream.