"Lo, Nemi! navelled in thy woody hills
So far, that the uprooting wind which tears
The oak from his foundations, and which spills
The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears
Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares
The oval mirror of thy glassy lake;
And, calm as cherished hate, its surface wears
A deep, cold, settled aspect naught can shake,
All coiled into itself and round, as sleeps the snake."—Byron.