Unto the master of the rite—even Soma, while his brightness is refined—I lift my fashioned speech as one proffers a precious gift, bearing it with gathered thought, that he may taste its sweetness.

He darts about the fleece of sheep, fresh-anointed with the milk of kine; in shining purity the tawny god ordaineth for himself three thrones of rest.

Around the honey-dropping vat he whirls upon the snowy wool, and the seven voices of the seers cry out in welcome to his rushing tide.

Ever circling—herald of thought, friend to every god, proof against all guile—the golden Soma, purified and radiant, hath taken harbour in the twin beakers.

Wheel thou likewise, by thine own divine free powers, yoked in one chariot with Indra; purified as an immortal cantor by mortal singers, roll onward in the hymn.

So, like a team that straineth for the prize, the god, pressed for the gods, runs clean through the straining-cloth; the self-cleansing one cleaves his path and is away.