THE gold-hued juice, poured out upon the filter, is started like a car sent forth to conquer. He hath gained song and vigour while they cleansed him, and hath rejoiced the Gods with entertainments.
He who beholdeth man hath reached the filter: bearing his name, the Sage hath sought his dwelling. The Ṛṣis came to him, seven holy singers, when in the bowls he settled as Invoker.
Shared by all Gods, mobt wise, propitious, Soma goes, while they cleanse him, to his constant station. Let him rejoice in all his lofty wisdom to the Five Tribes the Sage attains with labour.
In thy mysterious place, O Pavamana Soma, are all the Gods, the Thrice-Eleven. Ten on the fleecy height, themselves, self-prompted, and seven fresh rivers, brighten and adorn thee.
Now let this be the truth of Pavamana, there where all singers gather them together, That he hath given us room and made the daylight, hath holpen Manu and repelled the Dasyu.
As the priest seeks the station rich in cattle, like a true King who goes to great assemblies, Soma hath sought the beakers while they cleansed him, and like a wild bull, in the wood hath settled.
