(XVIII.) Persepolis: call'd also _Takht.i-Jamshyd_--THE THRONE OF JAMSHYD, «_King Splendid,_» of the mythical _Peshdadian_ Dynasty, and supposed (according to the Shahnama) to have been founded and built by him. Others refer it to the Work of the Genie King, Jan Ibn Jan--who also built the Pyramids--before the time of Adam. BAHRAM GUR--_Bahram of the Wild Ass_--a Sassanian Sovereign--had also his Seven Castles (like the King of Bohemia!) each of a different Colour; each with a Royal Mistress within; each of whom tells him a Story, as told in one of the most famous Poems of Persia, written by Amir Khusraw: all these Seven also figuring (according to Eastern Mysticism) the Seven Heavens; and perhaps the Book itself that Eighth, into which the mystical Seven transcend, and within which they revolve. The Ruins of Three of those Towers are yet shown by the Peasantry; as also the swamp in which Bahram sunk like the Master of Ravenswood while pursuing his _Gur_. The Palace that to Heav'n his pillars threw, And Kings the forehead on his threshold drew-- I saw the solitary Ringdove there, And «Coo, coo, coo,» she cried; and «Coo, coo, coo.» This Quatrain Mr. Binning found, among several of Hafiz and others, inscribed by some stray hand among the ruins of Persepolis. The Ringdove's ancient _Pehlevi Coo, Coo, Coo_, signifies also in Persian, «_Where? Where? Where?_» In Attar's «Bird-parliament» she is reproved by the Leader of the Birds for sitting still, and for ever harping on that one note of lamentation for her lost Yusuf. Apropos of Omar's Red Roses in Stanza xix., I am reminded of an old English superstition, that our Anemone Pulsatilla, or purple «Pasque Flower» (which grows plentifully about the Fleam Dyke, near Cambridge), grows only where Danish blood has been spilt. (XXI.) A thousand years to each Planet. (XXXI.) Saturn, Lord of the Seventh Heaven. (XXXII.) ME-AND-THEE: some dividual Existence or Personality distinct from the Whole. (XXXVII.) One of the Persian Poets--Attar, I think--has a pretty story about this. A thirsty Traveller dips his hand into a Spring of Water to drink from. By and by comes another who draws up and drinks from an earthen Bowl, and then departs, leaving his Bowl behind him. The first Traveller takes it up for another draught; but is surprised to find that the same Water which had tasted sweet from his own hand tastes bitter from the earthen Bowl. But a Voice--from Heaven, I think--tells him the clay from which the Bowl is made was once _Man_; and, into whatever shape renewed, can never lose the bitter flavour of Mortality.