Baptized in aureate light he yokes his own swift stallions and rides clean over every quarrel, even as the Sun drives forth his self-harnessed team. Within the surging flood of the press he flashes ruddy-gold and tawny, wheeling through all his changing shapes on the breath of the seven-mouthed singers whose verse is motion and fire.

He hath uncovered the hidden treasure the Paṇis withheld, and in his own bright dwelling—midst his milk-mothers—he tends it by the clear lights of truth. As a distant strain of music draws the heart, so do keen insights take their pleasure there. From the threefold red kine he hath drawn new life; he shineth, and in that shining his vigor is reborn.

Keeping the ancient eastward course, he drives on, watchful ever; he settles to the reins, ray-like, a chariot fair to behold—a sky-born car of splendor. Then rise the hymns, the manly powers; they rouse great Indra to his triumph, while thou, O Soma, and his iron mace stand firm, unshaken in the shock of battle.