In plain words
The poet, waking the Lord: The music of the bamboo flutes of the herdsmen, as they loose the tall young buffaloes to graze, and the ringing of the bulls' bells have joined in one sound and spread through every quarter. In the fields the swarms of bees have risen humming. O God of gods, whose fine bow [Śārṅga] withered the clan of the rākṣasas of Laṅkā; O our King of Ayōdhyā, of slaying might, who guarded the great sage Viśvāmitra's sacrifice and saw him to its closing bath: Lord of Araṅgam, in grace, rise from your bed.