In plain words
The poet, waking the Lord: Here is the east wind, blowing keen after brushing the rich blossoms of the rich jasmine vine. The swans that slept on beds of flowers have risen, shaking their great wings wet with the falling dew. O you who ended the cruel grief of the elephant [Gajendra], who suffered, tormented by the venom as the white fangs sank in, in the cave-like gaping mouth of the crocodile that had seized it: Lord of Araṅgam, in grace, rise from your bed.