My thoughts, keen and sun-seeking, all drawn to one end, have roared out unto Indra in yearning.

They cleave to him as wives cleave to a worthy lord, they hold fast the giver of wealth, the fair and strong one, for aid.

My mind strays not from thee, but followeth thy path alone— on thee alone hath my longing been set, thou oft-invoked.

As a king taketh his seat, O wondrous one, rest thou upon the sacred grass.
For here is soma—let the draught be poured for thee.

Indra, who driveth back hunger and neglect from every side, he alone, the bounteous one, becometh lord of riches and store.

To his strength, these seven rivers in their rushing add their force— to the strength of the wild bull who stormeth the sky.

As birds rest upon a leafy tree, so settle the soma-drops upon Indra— bright and gladdening, resting in the cup.

Their gleam, flashing forth again and yet again, hath found the sun—the light of the noble— and brought it unto Manu.

As a gambler casteth the best of throws and draweth the perfect hand, so doth the bounteous one seize the sun as his prize.

None shall match this deed of thine—not one of olden time, nor any in this present day.

Clan after clan doth the giver surround, as a great bull guardeth the life-streams of the folk.

In whose pressings the mighty one is gladdened, that house shall prevail— for his sharpened soma smiteth all foes in the fray.

When soma’s streams pour into Indra as waters into a river, as brooks into a still pool, the seers at the altar lift up his greatness, as rain uplifteth the barley with its sky-sent drop.

As a wrathful bull he stormeth through the airs— he who hath wed these waters to an Ārya’s hand.

He found the light for him who pressed the giftful draught, for Manu, who gave with full heart.

Let the axe rise up with its shining edge; let the cow of truth, who giveth good milk, be born again as aforetime.

Let the red flame blaze with bright strength; and let the lord of homes flare as the sun in his rising.

With kine may we drive away the ill of neglect, with barley may we banish hunger, thou oft-invoked.

With our kings and with our kindred, may we be foremost to win the prize.

Let Indra, lord of good shaping, guard us round about— from behind, from above, from beneath, from the foe that lurketh in the forepart or midmost path.
Let him, as friend, make wide room for his friends.