II

Let us now proclaim for the robust host, for the herald of the powerful Indra, their ancient greatness!  O ye strong-voiced Maruts, you heroes, prove your powers on your march, as with a torch, as with a sword!  Like parents bringing a dainty to their own son, the wild Maruts play playfully at the sacrifices.  The Rudras reach the worshipper with their protection, strong in themselves, they do not fail the sacrificer.  For him to whom the immortal guardians have given fulness of wealth, and who is himself a giver of oblations, the Maruts, who gladden men with the milk of rain, pour out, like friends, many clouds.  You who have stirred up the clouds with might, your horses rushed forth, self-guided.  All beings who dwell in houses are afraid of you, your march is brilliant with your spears thrust forth.  When they whose march is terrible have caused the rocks to tremble, or when the manly Maruts have shaken the back of heaven, then every lord of the forest fears at your racing, each shrub flies out of your way, whirling like chariot-wheels.  You, O terrible Maruts, whose ranks are never broken, favorably fulfil our prayer!  Wherever your glory-toothed lightning bites, it crunches cattle, like a well-aimed bolt.  The Maruts whose gifts are firm, whose bounties are never ceasing, who do not revile, and who are highly praised at the sacrifices, they sing their song for to drink the sweet juice:  they know the first manly deeds of the hero Indra.  The man whom you have guarded, O Maruts, shield him with hundredfold strongholds from injury and mischief—­the man whom you, O fearful, powerful singers, protect from reproach in the prosperity of his children.  On your chariots, O Maruts, there are all good things, strong weapons are piled up clashing against each other.  When you are on your journeys, you carry the rings on your shoulders, and your axle turns the two wheels at once.  In their manly arms there are many good things, on their chests golden chains, flaring ornaments, on their shoulders speckled deer-skins, on their fellies sharp edges; as birds spread their wings, they spread out splendors behind.  They, mighty by might, all-powerful powers, visible from afar like the heavens with the stars, sweet-toned, soft-tongued singers with their mouths, the Maruts, united with Indra, shout all around.  This is your greatness, O well-born Maruts!—­your bounty extends far, as the sway of Aditi.  Not even Indra in his scorn can injure that bounty, on whatever man you have bestowed it for his good deeds.  This is your kinship with us, O Maruts, that you, immortals, in former years have often protected the singer.  Having through this prayer granted a hearing to man, all these heroes together have become well known by their valiant deeds.  That we may long flourish, O Maruts, with your wealth, O ye racers, that our men may spread in the camp, therefore let me achieve the rite with these offerings.  May this praise, O Maruts, this song of Mandarya, the son of Mana, the poet, ask you with food for offspring for ourselves!  May we have an invigorating autumn, with quickening rain!