In plain words
The poet, of Tirumāliruñcōlai: The hill of the Lord, who laid waste, clan and all, the rākṣasas that roamed about harassing, terrifying and killing creatures, and stood as the lamp of his own clan [the Ikṣvākus], is lovely Tirumāliruñcōlai, where the glorious river Cilampāṟu ever flows, in which the women of the gods come down with ringing anklets to bathe.