So from a water clear, the trembling light Of Phoebus, or the silver queen of night, Along the spacious rooms with splendour plays, Now high, now low… - John Hoole

The spotless maid is like the blooming rose
Which on its native stem unsullied grows;
Where fencing walls the garden-space surround,
Nor swains, nor browsing cattle tread the ground.
But if some hand the tender stalk invades,
Lost is its beauty, and its colour fades:
No more the care of heaven, or garden's boast,
And all its praise with youths and maidens lost.

My endeavour has been to render the sense of my author as nearly as possible, which could never be done merely by translating his words.

For oft the grace
Of costly vest improves a beauteous face.