Down drops the beast, nor needs a second wound, But sprawls in pangs of death, and spurns the ground.
By the same weapon, sent from the same hand, Both fall together, and both spurn the sand.
And, as a lion— when he spies from far A bull that seems to meditate the war, Bending his neck, and spurning back the sandRuns roaring downward from his hilly stand: Imagine eager Turnus not more slow, To rush from high on his unequal foe.
His armor-bearer first, and next he kills His charioteer, intrench’d betwixt the wheels And his lov’d horses; last invades their lord; Full on his neck he drives the fatal sword: The gasping head flies off; a purple flood Flows from the trunk, that welters in the blood, Which, by the spurning heels dispers’d around, The bed besprinkles and bedews the ground.
Him when he spied from far, the Tuscan king Laid by the lance, and took him to the sling, Thrice whirl’d the thong around his head, and threw: The heated lead half melted as it flew; It pierc’d his hollow temples and his brain; The youth came tumbling down, and spurn’d the plain.
So fares the bull in his lov’d female’s sight: Proudly he bellows, and preludes the fight; He tries his goring horns against a tree, And meditates his absent enemy; He pushes at the winds; he digs the strand With his black hoofs, and spurns the yellow sand.
He said, and trampled down with all the force Of his left foot, and spurn’d the wretched corse; Then snatch’d the shining belt, with gold inlaid; The belt Eurytion’s artful hands had made, Where fifty fatal brides, express’d to sight, All in the compass of one mournful night, Depriv’d their bridegrooms of returning light.
Then, with a casual blow was Rhoeteus slain, Who chanc’d, as Pallas threw, to cross the plain: The flying spear was after Ilus sent; But Rhoeteus happen’d on a death unmeant: From Teuthras and from Tyres while he fled, The lance, athwart his body, laid him dead: Roll’d from his chariot with a mortal wound, And intercepted fate, he spurn’d the ground.
…goat, who frisks about the folds, Or beamy stag, that grazes on the plainHe runs, he roars, he shakes his rising mane, He grins, and opens wide his greedy jaws; The prey lies panting underneath his paws: He fills his famish’d maw; his mouth runs o’er With unchew’d morsels, while he churns the gore: So proud Mezentius rushes on his foes, And first unhappy Acron overthrows: Stretch’d at his length, he spurns the swarthy ground; The lance, besmear’d with blood, lies broken in the wound.
An annual off’ring in thy grove shall bleed; A snow-white steer, before thy altar led, Who, like his mother, bears aloft his head, Butts with his threat’ning brows, and bellowing stands, And dares the fight, and spurns the yellow sands."
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Her father—spurned and rejected and lovelorn?
Margaret Peterson Haddix -- Uprising
I wanted to spurn the Herondale name because I thought I hated my father, but I don’t hate him.