Let auspicious thought draw nigh, and become as one of our own—our hearthmate, our guide.

Agni I call, the youngest among the gods, for delights; a friend hard to hold back, for he is moved by his own command.

Upon his steady ground, the dappled flames give honor to the sun above, and to the breast of their mother, the fire’s own seat.

With his very body he buildeth his nest; his shining beam is as a beacon set aloft.

By their breath they feed him, and he waxeth strong— he flasheth forth, his teeth aflame in a row.

The path he marketh goeth onward for stranger and kin alike, for he hath stretched himself to the farthest ends of heaven.

He is the shining poet, but also the swelling cloud.

Gladly he feedeth on the offerings of Manu’s sons.
The craftsman riseth tall at the rite;
Agni setteth his seat and leadeth the way.

For he is peace of home, the gift, the sacrifice itself.
By heeding him alone, the path unfoldeth:
the gods walk the road to Agni, whose limbs are like axes of flame.

To Agni I turn, he who ruleth through the rite, and seek the friendship of that kindly one of old.

Some call Āyu his name—born, say they, from the stone.

Whosoever among us are counted the highest of men, let them find wealth indeed, for they make Agni thrive through their gift.

His course is of black, white, and red;
his glory gleameth copper, silver, and ruddy gold.
The begetter hath begotten him in golden form.

Thus, O Agni, thou child of nurture,
Vimada cometh with the deathless ones to bring thee his soul’s deep song and his breath-born praises.

Thou hast brought refreshment, good dwelling, and the fullness of bread.