I prepare songs, like as a handy priest, wise
in his mind, prepares the water, mighty at sacrifices. They are born,
the tall bulls of heaven, the manly youths of Rudra, the divine, the
blameless, pure, and bright like suns; scattering raindrops, full of
terrible designs, like giants. The youthful Rudras, they who never grow
old, the slayers of the demon, have grown irresistible like mountains.
They throw down with their strength all beings, even the strongest, on
earth and in heaven. They deck themselves with glittering ornaments for
a marvellous show; on their chests they fastened gold chains for beauty;
the spears on their shoulders pound to pieces; they were born together
by themselves, the men of Dyu. They who confer power, the roarers, the
devourers of foes, they made winds and lightnings by their powers. The
shakers milk the heavenly udders, they sprinkle the earth all round with
milk. The bounteous Maruts pour forth water, mighty at sacrifices, the
fat milk of the clouds. They seem to lead about the powerful horse, the
cloud, to make it rain; they milk the thundering, unceasing spring.
Mighty they are, powerful, of beautiful splendor, strong in themselves
like mountains, yet swiftly gliding along;--you chew up forests, like
wild elephants, when you have assumed your powers among the red flames.
Like lions they roar, the wise Maruts, they are handsome like gazelles,
the all-knowing.
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