When Zoë turns to look or speak,
We feel a spell the heart beguile.
Dwells it in pure transparent cheek;
In laughing eye, or frolic smile?
Dwells it in frank, yet well-bred, air;
Dwells it in habit, choice, but simple;
Lurks it in ringlet of her hair;
Or shifts it with the shifting dimple?
No!—These are not her spells from Love;
Only the lesser charms he uses;
Slight witcheries the sense to move;