Your winning is with strength, dazzling, with heavenly light, with fruit mature, O Maruts, fall of plenteousness. Auspicious is your gift like a free giver's meed, victorious, spreading far, as of immortal Gods. 8. The rivers roar before your chariot fellies when they are uttering the voice of rain-clouds. The lightnings laugh upon the earth beneath them, what time the Maruts scatter forth their fatness.
