THROUGH the fine fingers, with the song, this Hero comes with rapid ears, Going to Indra's special place.
In holy thought he ponders much for the great worship of the Gods. Where the Immortals have their seat.
Like a good horse is he led out, when on the path that shines with light The mettled steeds exert their strength.
He brandishes his horns on high, and whets them Bull who leads the herd, Doing with might heroic deeds.
He moves, a vigorous Steed, adorned with beauteous rays of shining gold, Becoming Sovran of the streams.
He, over places rough to pass, bringing rich treasures closely packed. Descends into the reservoirs.
Men beautify him in the vats, him worthy to be beautified, Him who brings forth abundant food.
Him, even him, the fingers ten and the seven songs make beautiful, Well-weaponed, best of gladdeners.
