FLOW on to Indra, Soma, carefully effused: let sickness stay afar together with the fiends.

Let not the double-tongued delight them with thy juice. here be thy flowing drops laden with opulence.

O Indu, urge us forward in the fight thou art the vigour of the Devas, the well-loved drink. Smite thou our enemies who raise the shout of joy: Indra, drink Soma juice, and drive away our foes.

Unharmed, best Cheerer O Indu, flowest on: thou, even thou thyself, art Indra's noblest food. Full many a wise man lifts to thee the song of praise, and hails thee with a kiss as Sovran of this world.

Wondrous, with hundred streams, hymned in a thousand songs, indu pours out for Indra his delightrul meath. Winning us land and waters, flow thou hitherward: Rainer of bounties, Soma, make broad way for us.

Roaring within the beaker thou art balmed with milk: thou passest through the fleecy filter all at once. Carefully cleansed and decked like a prizewinning steed, O Soma, thou hast flowed down within Indra's throat.

Flow onward sweet of flavour for the Heavenly Race, for Indra sweet, whose name is easily invoked: Flow sweet for Mitra, Indra, and Soma, rich in meath, inviolable for Soma.

Ten rapid fingers deck the Courser in the jar: with hymns the holy singers send their voices forth. The filtering juices hasten to their eulogy, the drops that gladden find their way to Indra's heart.

While thou art purified pour on us hero strength, great, far-extended shelter, spacious pasturage. Let no oppression master this our holy work. May we, O Indu, gain all opulence through thee.

The Steer who sees afar hath risen above the sky: the Sage hath caused the lights of Heaven to give their shine. The. King is passing through the filter with a roar: they drain the milk of Heaven from him who looks on men.

High in the vault of Heaven, unceasing, honey-tongued, the Loving Ones drain out the mountain-haunting Steer. The drop that hath grown great in waters, in the lake meath-rich, in the stream's wave and in the cleansing sieve.

The Loving Ones besought with many voices the Eagle who had flown away to Heaven. Hymns kiss the Youngling worthy of laudation, resting on Earth, the Bird of golden colour.

High to Heaven's vault hath the Gandharva risen, beholding all his varied forms and figures. His ray hath shone abroad with gleaming splendour: pure, he hath lighted both the worlds, the Parents.