With victory already won upon the sacred stalk, the tawny draught is pressed to quicken joy; pierce afar, good comrades, the long-tongued cur that would lap the offering dry.
Forth he streams in a stainless torrent—the shining drop—like a sure-footed charger that never faileth of his course.
Him, the Soma faint of flame, do men of finest wit, their thought spread wide on every side, urge to the rite with ringing stones.
Most honey-sweet libations, strained and gladdening to Indra, have sped in filtered floods; speed ye, O rapturous draughts, straightway unto the gods.
“Lo, the drop cleanseth himself for Indra!”—so spake the heavenly throng. The Lord of Speech goeth forth to wage his quest, wielding all dominion by his might.
With a thousand shining channels he makes himself pure—an ocean that sets our utterance afloat—Soma, treasure-lord, fast friend of Indra, from day to day.
Here is Pūṣan, here Wealth and Fortune: Soma, rushing through his cleansing, beholdeth the twain world-halves as sovereign of creation.
Together the dear kine low unto him, fain for delight; self-purging drops carve out their covert paths.
Draw hither the mightiest—Indra—O self-cleansing one, the famed in song, who overleaps the five wide realms, and with whom we shall win rich spoil.
The Soma drops, our flawless guides, refine themselves—helpers abounding in wisdom, tracers of the Sun—while the stones press them forth.
Crushed by the strikers, splendid upon the cowhide, the wealth-finders roar from every quarter, bearing refreshment unto us.
These clarified juices, keen to inspiration, curd-blent, gleam like rising suns—restless yet steadfast in the golden ghee.
Even as a mortal hearkeneth to speech, so hath the unfed dog grown fond of the stalk’s sweet talk; drive off the niggard cur, as the Bhṛgus smote the Striker.
Their kinsman hath folded himself in a milk-white mantle for pleasure, as a child in twin arms; he hasteth like a lover to a maid, to rest within the womb.
A hero is he, translating craft to deed, who hath stayed asunder the twin worlds; the tawny draught hath wrapped him in the filter, a sage to bide within the womb.
Soma is purified on the sheep-soft fleece and the cow’s spread hide; ever he roareth—a tawny, bull-strong bay—on his destined way to meet with Indra.