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THE WREN.
“Why is the wren, even in our present day, sung and celebrated as such in Ireland? Why was it the augurs' favourite bird, and why did the Druids also represent it as the king of all birds? I find the best answer to these inquiries in Kelly's ‘Indo-European Tradition and Folk-lore,’ where it is stated that, though the exalted pretensions of this smallest of European birds are not unknown to German tradition, it is in the Celtic memory they have been best preserved. In the legends of Bretagne and Normandy, he is spoken of expressly as a fire-bringer. A messenger was wanted to bring fire from heaven, and the wren undertook the perilous task, which nearly cost the bold bird its life, for its plumage was burnt off even to the down, whereupon the other birds gave each of them one of their feathers to clothe the naked and shivering little king.”
The Breton version of this legend is thus given by St. Beuve:—“It pleased God at a certain time to withdraw fire, the element of life itself, from the air. All nature seemed about to perish. As to the birds, consternation reigned among them. The vultures, becoming more evil-hearted through fear, fought and battled with each other. The nightingale, having sung his last song, drooped, and hid his head within his nest. Even the eagle, accustomed to carry heaven's lightnings, allowed them to escape in the general extinction. In this universal agony there was but one bird, the wren, the least, the most humble of all, which, without losing heart and courage, soared up high and steadfastly, and even from the highest heaven caught a spark to rekindle the fires of earth, but was consumed in the flame it brought down.”
Of the birds, that with flame and with gold
Have lit up my tiny crest;
I mount on the eagle's wing,
On the tallest trees I am bold
To build up my little nest.
I have lit up my flaming crest
In the sea incarnadine
With the summer's sunken suns,
When the light from the East to the West
Moves swiftly as strength that runs,
Or love that would seek its rest.
I mounted, at your behest,
To the hearth of Heaven aglow!
Since then on my tiny crest,
Since then on my little breast,
Is the touch of fire imprest.
Hath dropt, when the light from the rose
With the scent that her heart o'erflows
Hath fled! when the songs spring woke
Are hushed! at the evenings' close
You may hear me sing through the snows.
When the hedge is still, and the brook
My song ye may ofttimes hear;
It is bold, it is loud, it is clear,
Though but slender change it knows.
When the swallows fly I stay;
I flit o'er the hidden root,
I flit 'neath the blacken'd spray.
When the year is dead, and the day
Is dying fast, I sit
On your roofs awhile, then I flit
Like a shade among shadows grey
From a cloud none seeth pass,
Though it darkens the sunny grass
Ere yet it hath moved away.
That bearest the scent of the sod
Unto heaven and the morning's dew;
To thyself thou art true, and to God.
With God I am bold; I am true
I mounted, I brought down fire;
Yet my breast is scorched, and behold
My breast is bare! I am cold,
I shiver, yet I bring fire!
“This most pleasing fairy bird delights in the largest trees, such as oaks, elms, tall pines, and firs, particularly the first, in which it finds both food and shelter; in these it builds its nest. It stays with us the whole year, and braves our severest winters, which it helps to enliven by its sprightly note. During that season it approaches near the dwellings of man, and takes shelter in the roofs of houses, barns, and in haystacks; it sings till late in the evening, and not unfrequently during a fall of snow. In the spring it betakes itself to the woods, where it builds in a low bush, or sometimes on the turf itself, near a tree's bole.“ —Bewicke's British Birds.
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