SWEDEN ON THE LUXBURG INCIDENT.
We cannot think that we're to blame.
We took the very natural view
That one who bore a German name
Would be as open as the blue;
Would bathe in sunlight, like a lark,
So different from the worm or weevil,
Those crawling things that love the dark
Because their deeds are evil.
We thought his cables just referred
To harmless matters such as crops,
The timber-market's latest word,
The local fashions in the shops,
To German trade and German bands,
And how in Argentine and Sweden
And all that's left of neutral lands
To build a German Eden.
True he employed a secret code,
But who would guess at guile in that?
Unless he used the cryptic mode
He couldn't be a diplomat;
He wished (we thought) to be discreet,
Telling his friends how frail and fair is
The exotic feminine you meet
In bounteous Buenos Aires.
Why, then, should mud be thrown so hard
At Stockholm's faith? She merely meant
To show a neighbourly regard
Towards a nice belligerent;
For peaceful massage she was made;
Aloof from martial animosities,
She yearns with fingers gloved in suède
To temper war's callosities.
Such courtesy (one would have said)
Amid the waste of savage strife
Tends to maintain—what else were dead—
The sweet amenities of life;
And seeking ends so pure, so good,
So innocent, it does surprise her
To be so much misunderstood
By all—except the KAISER.
O.S.