Rich in their aim, as poets stirred by heaven-born thought; rich in reward, as those who serve the gods with holy gifts; fair to behold, as kings in glory clad;
pure and unmarked, as youths of well-born towns.

Their breasts aglow with gleaming stones, they flash as fire; they race like winds, yoked to their own breath, bringing swift aid; their counsel sound as greybeards wise in forethought, their shelter sweet as soma to the truth-seeker's lips.

Like gusts of wind, they stir and never settle, their radiance flickers like the tongues of flame; they burn with strength, as mailed men in battle; they gift like sires remembered in song and rite.

As chariot spokes all meet in one still navel, so are they bound, heavenward like victors crowned; they rain down ghee as lusty youths their gold, and beat in time like chanters in their song.

Fleet as high-bred steeds, they bear good bounty, like suitors seeking hearts with bridled speed; they flow as streams that hold the deeps in trust, and show forth every shape in song, as Aṅgirases of old.

Like stones that press, their patrons spring from rivers, like steadfast rocks they ceaselessly do strike; they play as children do with loving mothers, or march as mighty hosts, unrest their war-drum’s cry.

Like dawn-fires blazing bright upon the altar, they shine as seekers drawn to beauty’s gleam; they stream as rivers, spear-tips catching sunlight, they mark their path as wayfarers through far-off lands.

O gods, grant us good lot and rich upholding; strengthen us, Maruts, we who sing your name.

Give heed unto our praise and to our kinship— for treasure-gifts of old are still your right.