By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung.

The Poet is standing in front of the cemetery of the Nation’s Great Patriots who were buried long gone and those who have left a mark in the History of the poet’s country i.e. England. These patriots were called to eternal rest after the praise worthy sacrifices they made on behalf of their country and a long chorus of praises and blessings of the people who attended their funeral and cremation. Each year, after the long shrill of the biting winter, the bright colours of spring presence of dew from dusk to dawn, returns every seasonal cycle to decorate the sacred graves of these great people. At the peak of Spring, these graves are kept in hues even more fanciful than anyone can ever imagine. | Through unknown ways and unknown hands, the sounds of bells tolled after their deaths are ultimately rung and through unknown voices their mournful song is sung. Just like pilgrims, ‘Honor’ and ‘Freedom’ come to the tombs of the brave and abide there forever.