LIKE cars that thunder on their way, like coursers eager for renown, Have Soma-drops flowed forth for wealth.
Forth have they rushed from holding hands, like chariots that are urged to speed, Like joyful songs of singing-men.
The Somas deck themselves with milk, as Kings are graced with eulogies, And, with seven priests, the sacrifice.
Pressed for the gladdening draught, the drops flow forth abundantly with song, The Soma juices in a stream.
Winning Vivasvān's glory and producing Morning's light, the Suns Pass through the openings of the cloth.
The singing-men of ancient time open the doors of sacred songs,— Men, for the mighty to accept.
Combined in close society sit the seven priests, the brother-hood, Filling the station of the One.
He gives us kinship with the Gods, and with the Sun unites our eye: The Sage's ofrspring hath appeared.
The Sun with his dear eye beholds that quarter of the heavens which priests Have placed within the sacred cell.
