When the glaciers quail ’neath hot sunbeams,
    And all Nature into life doth spring—­
  When from mountain-sides gush forth cool streams,
    And with sounds of glee the forests ring—­
      Fragrant zephyrs too
      Stray the green meads through
    And the heavens smile, serene and blue. 
      While from upland air
        Rings to many a clime,
      “Oh, how wond’rous fair
        Is the glad spring-time!”

  And was it not in the days of spring
    That thy heart and mine, O maiden fair! 
  Were united, while our lips did cling
    In their first long kiss, so sweet and rare? 
      What the glad grove sang
      Through the wide vale rang,
    And the fresh stream from the mountain sprang. 
      While the upland air
        Wafted forth its rhyme,
      “Oh, how wond’rous fair
        Is the glad spring-time!”

Seldom has a volume of poems been received with more general applause.  Their renown spread rapidly through their native land; constantly increasing demand for copies rendered needful frequent new editions, to which at divers times were added by the author freshly-created poems; and the interest is still alive, now nearly quarter of a century after their first appearance, when they have passed their fiftieth edition.  They have been at one time or other translated into most of the modern tongues of Europe; and that they have never gained popularity with us is due probably to the fact that in those which have been translated into our tongue neither the essence nor the form of the original has been preserved.  By the title no mystification was ever designed:  it came, as it were, of itself, and the purport of the narrative through which the main songs were interwoven being well known, it was never, supposed that a doubt concerning the authorship could arise.  Nevertheless, the critics accepted them as translations from the Persian, and sharp lines of distinction were drawn between the poet, Mirza-Schaffy, and his translator, Friedrich Bodenstedt, not precisely to the advantage of the latter.  Many a hearty laugh did Bodenstedt indulge in on reading in one or another learned dissertation that he was the possessor of a very neat poetic talent, and frequently reminded one in his original compositions of the works of his genial teacher, Mirza-Schaffy, of which he had given admirable translations, though without attaining to the excellence of the original.  Now, a poet, in the wildest flights of his imagination, could not hope for a more brilliant success for the poetic fiction of his own creation than to have it accepted by the world as a living reality.  In this he would naturally delight, even though his own personality were for a time thrust into the background, precisely like a loving father whose children meet with better fortune in life than himself.  Sundry renditions into foreign tongues were even announced as direct translations from the Persian.