Lora, Lora, still we love thee,
Though we see thy form no more;
And we know thou'lt come to meet us
When we reach the mystic shore.
Brightly dawned the morrow's morning,
Over hill and over dale,
Still with mournful hearts we lingered
By the side of Lora Vale.
She was almost at the river
When the light broke from the sky,
And she smiled and whispered faintly,
"I am not afraid to die."
Lora, Lora, still we love thee,
Though we see thy form no more;
And we know thou'lt come to meet us
When we reach the mystic shore.
Softly through the trellised window,
Came the west wind's gentler breath,
But she heeded not its mildness;
For she slept the sleep of death.
And beyond the silver moonbeams,
Aye, beyond the stars of night,
Now she dwells, our darling Lora,
In the house of angels bright.
Lora, Lora, still we love thee,
Though we see thy form no more;
And we know thou'lt come to meet us
When we reach the mystic shore.