Like Lomonósov, Tredyakóvski was of humble origin, his father having been a priest in the city of Astrakhán; also, like his more illustrious colleague a few years later, he walked to Moscow and there entered the School of the Redeemer. He later passed a few years abroad, where he became acquainted with French literature. Upon his return to St. Petersburg in 1730, he translated a French book; in this translation the spoken Russian is for the first time used, free from Slavic influence. Even before this, Tredyakóvski had written verses in the syllabic versification, but in 1735 he discovered that the tonic versification was the only one adapted to the Russian language, and at once set out to write in that measure. His chief deserts do not lie in poetry, for his verses show an absolute absence of talent, and he later became a byword for insipidity. He was the first man to point out the necessity of using the Russian language for literary purposes, and to indicate the line in which Russian poetry must develop. By his enormous industry in translating from foreign languages he became an important factor in the dissemination of learning. The following ode is really an imitation of Boileau’s _Sur la prise de Namur_. ODE ON THE SURRENDER OF DANTZIG What strange intoxication emboldens my voice to singing? Muses, dwellers of Parnassus, does not my mind perceive you? I hear your sweet-sounding strings, your beautiful measure and moods, and a fire arises in my thoughts. O nations, listen all! Stormy winds, do not blow: my verse sings of Anna. Pindar, and after him Flaccus, have in high-flowing diction risen from the mist to the bright stars, like swift eagles. But if my song to-day were to equal my sincere and eternal zeal for Anna, Orpheus of Thrace and Amphion of Thebes would be in ecstasy from it. Now I strike the dulcet lyre to celebrate the magnificent victory to the greater downfall of the enemy. Oh, what victorious might has adorned our joy, for the might of the adversary was equal to ours. There is no limit to our pure joy that surpasses all example, that has given balm to our hearts. Has Neptune himself built the walls, those that stand by the sea? Do they not resemble the Trojan walls, for they would not let in the innumerable Russian army, mightily opposing it? Do not all call the Vistula Skamander? Do they not all regard Stoltzenberg as Mount Ida? That is not Troy, the mother of fables: there is not one Achilles here; everyone of the rank and file is in bravery a Hercules. What might is that that hurls lightning? Is it not Minerva gleaming in her helmet? ’Tis evident from her looks, from her whole appearance, that she is a goddess: without her ægis she is terrible,--’tis Anna, chief of all empresses.