The tawny draught roareth still as he is loosed, as he nestleth in the wooden womb, as his brightness is strained and clarified. Led by mortal hands, he putteth the kine upon him as a shining garment, and forthwith begetteth high-wrought thoughts by virtue of his own wondrous might.

Set free upon the path of Truth, the tawny one guideth his utterance even as a helmsman steereth his barque. A god himself, he bringeth the gods’ secret names to light, that they be cried aloud upon the sacred grass.

Like rolling billows ever out-stripping one another, inspirèd thoughts press on toward Soma. In reverence they draw nigh, they mingle with him; yearning, they enter the Yearner, and are satisfied.

Ceaselessly they milk him—the mountain-bred bull, the living herb—grooming him upon the fleece as men curry a buffalo’s back. While he bellows, the poet-thoughts attend his side; and Trita beareth great Varuṇa upon the sea.

Kindle our speech, O drop, as the Upavaktar quickeneth the Hotar’s voice; while thou art purified, let loose the inspirèd mind. Forasmuch as thou and Indra wield the power of fortune, grant that we may rule in the plenty of valorous men.