FORTH through the straining-cloth the Sage flows to the banquet of the Gods, Subduing all our enemies.
For he, as Pavamana, sends thousandfold treasure in the shape Of cattle to the singing-men.
Thou graspest all things with thy mind, and purifiest thee with thoughts As such, O Soma, find us fame.
Pour lofty glory on us, send sure riches to our liberal lords, Bring food to those who sing thy praise.
As thou art cleansed, O Wondrous Steed, O Soma, thou hast entered, like A pious King, into the songs.
He, Soma, like a courser in the floods invincible, made clean With hands, is resting in the jars.
Disporting, like a liberal chief, thou goest, Soma, to the sieve, Lending the laud a Hero's strength.
