Detail of Long Narrative

( . . . )
But, nothing expected, nothing heard. Christ!
Silence of god, deafening in distress,
Never missed, during times of happiness.
Ah, my foolish hopes. Only devils speak,
To wretched men from whom they’ve purchased souls.
No business has God to condescend;
Profane, we children of the flesh, ‘lone left.
In the quiet, I crawl’d down to the grate
And shouting southward, the Beast I berate:
“Hear, Devil!” Cried I, with tear-tasting tongue,
“Thou hast gave naught, cruel Mephistopheles!
What? Is soul-price based on Man’s own esteem?
Surely, no! But for what little value
Appraised I my own life, thou payed equal.
I rebuke your greed, for my eternal
Grace, you’ve given me but one moment’s taste,
And that moment long past! Assay me again!”
Thence from that trench expels a rancid air,
And from the darkness calls, the blood hung’ring
Many timbred, whisp’ring tongue of Legion:
“Lo! In such sorry state, remark, be ye,
I leakest brine to watch thine poverty!
I, the Alleviator of all pain,
Thy rebukest me mine kind soul-price?
Oh, how thine words strike ‘gainst my fathers’ heart,
Child’s petulance be a caustic dart.
Feel? Open heart to thine new Possessor;
I, not He, that displeaséd assessor.
But, correct! Value, truly, of the soul,
Scale-abjures; weight worth equalled not of gold.
It might be had for pebbles or the gem,
Caught by copper or Queenly diadem.
Indeed,  as ‘tis to each their own God’s grant,
Thy with Free Will name price, we’er rich or scant.
All the better, if Age devalues worth,
When reasoned mind-appraise it value dearth.
Less than the kidney; Yea, that shouds’t thou sell,
Lament, you! That would’st thy stark pocket swell!
I jest! Listen: The less it means to thee,
‘Tis easier to have, thus more to me.
Speak’st me blunt: Look about thee and think not
Thou be lonely in thine desperate want.
Most Men’s souls I have; the difference, friend:
Thou had’st not ambition, nor forethought ends.  
Thou wished for rewards instantaneous,
By logic small, it’s naturally thus.
‘Tis unfair, but look ye: ‘Tis all a mess,
All expect Croesian happiness.
Mind basic God-law: Holy iniquity
(Pity a virtue; Man needs men to pity).
My gifts grate with each other, for where one
Is made rich, one hath lost his equal sum.
Ah, well! Even the poorest here I’ve made
Of the richest men in hist’ry’s range.
Move! Go beggest thee, thou ungrateful wretch
Thou shalt receive thine tragic allowance!”  
Thence silent ‘came that sewer’s voice, though else
That scene was troubled; I, thus lay prostrate
Upon that gutter-swale, yes, quite observed.
Directly, my soft side received a boot,
Encouraged to remove my twisted corpse
From that channel. My comrades all in wroth,
Uneager at my denigration of
The lauded lifestyle of this coarse commune.
“Wild curs!” quoth I, though in a whisper, quite,
Better in truth equipped, were they, than I.
Sens’tive I! Well-bred ‘gainst viciousness
Which in that jungle garners ready meat.
Among that ragged crew: ‘tis the only praise.
That which fills the maw, makes the pirate’s place.
There, never should one admit, that desp’rate
Nature of their soul, no matter how low
Into recessed deprav’ty themselves they find.
To admit anguish, then to be silenced
By rough hand of abyssal companions,
‘Tis true a visc’ral woe. To be aware
Of the elements for unity, kept
Asunder by the pride of human form.
Ah, selfish mind! What horror is found there!
To see that vulgar beast, swaggering, bold,
Ambling casteless through Fallen breed. Pity
Be rightly to the Father of such
Lowly ludicrosity. Betrayal
Of Paul’s good summation: neighbourly love!
From that scene scurried I away, ample task:
Head crook-bent, and eyes fastened ‘pon the ground,
Wounded ego equals not wounded frame,
But fest’ring sore stays not the viral lust.
Limping on, that ghoul, I, forth comes from pit,
Into loftier clime. But thinking still;
The mind of those most miserly creatures,
They who’ve fallen far, work as once were wont:
Vice nulls not passion of pre-softened heart.