Indra, mighty lord, bestower of strength and wealth, we call upon you with yearning hearts. Grant us that heroic power for which we seek you—the ancient prize that the eager devotee desires, the praise that has echoed through ages. As you aided the leaders of men in their striving, as you protected Rushama, Shyavaka, and Kripa, so now, O Indra, bestower of sunlight, grant us your favor once more. Let mortals everywhere remember and praise the noble Kannavas, the Atasinas, the swift—yet none among them, though they offer you their highest adoration, have reached the measure of your greatness, Indra. Who among those who praise, who seek truth, who among the sages and inspired ones truly comprehends you, O generous god? When will you, O Indra, answer the call of the one who presses the Soma and sings your glory? Our sweetest songs, our honeyed praises, rise upward to you, unwearied, seeking victory and wealth. Like chariots racing for the prize, they hasten to reach you. Just as the Kanvas, the Bhrigus, the noble Suns, and all the inspired ones of old have magnified you with their hymns, so too do the beloved Medhasas sing aloud in your honor. Indra, slayer of Vritra, yoke your two bay steeds and come from afar. Draw near, mighty one, to the Soma-drink, accompanied by the eager. These poets, these wise ones, have longed for you in their thoughts, seeking wisdom. So, generous Indra, lover of song, listen to our call as a singer listens to music. You, Indra, struck down Vritra with your great bows. You destroyed the cunning Arbuda, the wild beast, and drove the cows out from the mountain’s hold. When fire was extinguished, when the sun was hidden, when the Soma’s vital essence was lost, you cast down the great demon from the midspace—such is your manly deed, O Indra. Among the Maruts, Indra shines by his own nature, difficult to approach, swift as if running in the sky, the Pākasthāma, the Kaurayāṇa, the red one with broad flanks, well-yoked and undeceived, the awakener. By him, others—ten in number—yoke the fires, like birds returning to their nest. From the father comes the soul, the body as a garment, strength as ointment; the fourth, the red generous Pākasthāma, the great giver, is declared. Whenever men invoke you, Indra—whether to the east, west, north, or south—you are renowned among many peoples as a helper, a champion for Turvasha. In the houses of Ruma, Rushama, Shyavaka, and Kripa, you delight, O Indra, as the Kanvas invite you with hymns and praises to come. Come to us as a thirsty bull comes to water, gentle and eager. Come to us, to our fathers and grandfathers, and drink with the Kanvas, delighting in the pressed Soma. Let the exhilarating drops gladden you, O bountiful Indra, for the generous one who presses Soma. You drank the best pressed draught and, strengthened by it, gained might. With your force you created strength, shattering anger with your power; all the warriors who opposed you, Indra, were subdued as trees are felled. Joined by thousands, ever young, the singer brings you praise, makes his son foremost in manliness, and wins gifts with words of reverence. Let us not fear or grow weary in your fierce friendship. Let us witness your great deeds, mighty one, as you performed for Turvasha and Yadu. Like a bull swelling his flank, you rush forward, your generosity undiminished. The cows, mingled with honey and richness, come—so come, flow, and drink. Your friend, Indra, is one with horses, with chariots, with fine form and cattle; always sharing in your strength, shining, ever youthful, he goes to the assembly. Like a thirsty wild beast, come to the fresh draught, drink the Soma, following your desires. Rejoicing day by day, you have taken up the strongest might. O Adhvaryu, let the Soma flow, for Indra thirsts; his two strong steeds are yoked, and the slayer of Vritra has come. Even the worshipper feels himself great when you are satisfied with Soma, for this is your fitting food, well mixed—come, drink, and be pleased. O Adhvaryus, press Soma for Indra, who stands on his chariot; let the stones resound on the pressing stone, pouring forth the offering for the generous ritual. The two strong, swift steeds, yoked to the chariot, bring Indra quickly; let the seven ritual teams, adorned for sacrifice, carry you here to the pressing ground. We choose Pūṣan, the much-giving, for companionship; so, O Shakra, much-invoked, teach us wisdom and grant us release for wealth. Sharpen us as one sharpens a razor on a strop; may we, through you, know the radiant wealth you bestow on mortals. I seek you, Pūṣan, for favor and praise, O radiant one; I seek not enmity but offer you song and hymn. The cows, O radiant one, have perhaps gone to the pasture, ever marked, immortal. Be our protector, Pūṣan, be gracious, most mighty for the gaining of strength. Grant us abundant wealth, a hundred horses, among the gifts of the swift and fortunate king. Among the Turvashas, may we find favor in his bounties. With the thoughts of Kanva, the prize-winner, with dear praises and shining hymns, we have driven out sixty thousand herds of cattle—the seer has released the troops. Even the trees have not withstood my onrush; they break apart, and the cows and horses are divided by my power. From afar, the red-hued one, shining with moisture, spreads out his radiance, upholding all things. Like men, O wondrous Ashvins, with minds yoked to your broad-powered chariot, you accompany Ushas, the dawn. To you, bestowers of wealth in horses, the hymns have come forth, as a messenger brings speech. You, beloved for aid, very gracious and rich in wealth, are praised by the Kanvas, O Ashvins. Most mighty winners of wealth, bringers of glory, lords of beauty—come to the house of the worshipper, and bless us with your presence.