“Tvaṣṭar prepareth a wedding for his daughter”— at this saying, lo, the whole world hearkens and gathers.

The mother of Yama, bride to great Vivasvant, was borne about in bridal rite—yet vanished from sight.

They hid her, the deathless one, from the eyes of mortal men.
And having shaped a likeness of her form, they gave that image unto Vivasvant for wife.

Yet she bore within her womb the Aśvins, twin-born, while the true one, Saraṇyū, left behind the pair— perhaps Yama and Yamī, of equal soul and bond.

Let Pūṣan awaken thee now—he, the wise herdsman whose flocks stray not, the warden of the world.

He shall guide thee unto the Fathers;
and Agni shall lead thee unto the gods,
those that are good to find.

Āyu, whose name is Lifetime, shall gird thee round with full span of days.
From the forepath let Pūṣan ward thee well.
Where the doers of good deeds sit, where they have gone before, there may Savitar, the god, set thee down in peace.

Pūṣan knoweth these lands full well—through and through.
He shall lead us by the gentlest way, where no hurt lieth.
Glowing he cometh, grantor of wholeness and hale-hearted men.
Let him go before us, ever foreseeing.

Upon the forward road was Pūṣan born—
the path that leadeth heavenward, the road of earth below.
To each beloved seat he wandereth, forward and back, with foresight in his eye.

They call upon Sarasvatī, those that seek the gods.
In lengthening rites she is named.
They of noble deed have called her;
and she shall bestow goodly wealth upon the faithful.

O Sarasvatī, who once rode the chariot alongside the Fathers of old,
stirred with joy at the svadhā-cry, take now thy place on this sacred grass.
Be glad with us—grant unto us foods that bring no ill.

Sarasvatī, whom the Fathers call when they come unto the southern fire,
bring forth a share of the draught, rich in thousands, full of gain, for the givers of offering.

Let the Waters—ye Mothers—make us clean.
With ghee, O pure ones, cleanse us well.
For ye, O goddesses, bear away all stain.
I rise from your stream shining, made pure.

That drop which was loosed in the early days— through this womb and through the womb before—

I now offer, ever circling, in the way of the seven sacred rites.

Thy drop that leapeth forth, and thy herb set a-stir by priestly arms, whether from the holy lap, or from the Adhvaryu’s hand, or from the strainer—
that I offer in mind, at the cry of vaṣaṭ.

Thy bursting drop, thy plant, that which is beneath the ladle and that which is beyond— let Br̥haspati, god of the word, pour all these together for our blessing.

Milk-full are the herbs; milk-full my lowly speech.
Milk-full too is the milk of the waters.
With this let me be cleansed, through and through.