Petróv was the son of a poor clergyman. He studied in the Theological Academy at Moscow, where he was made a teacher in 1760. Through Potémkin, his friend, he was presented to the Empress, who, in 1768, appointed him her private translator and reader. In 1772 he was sent to England, where he soon acquired the language. In London he translated Milton’s _Paradise Lost_ and made a careful study of Addison, especially of his _Cato_. Petróv wrote a large number of adulatory odes, now long forgotten; he showed more talent in his satires, which he wrote in England, and in which the influence of the English writers whom he studied may be perceived. The following ode, probably his best, is from Sir John Bowring’s _Specimens of the Russian Poets_, Part II. ON THE VICTORY OF THE RUSSIAN OVER THE TURKISH FLEET[140] O triumph! O delight! O time so rich in fame Unclouded, bright and pure as the sun’s midday flame! Ruthenia’s strength goes forth--see from the sea emerge The Typhons of the north!--The lightning, in its might, Flashes in dazzling light,-- And subject is the surge. They wander o’er the waves,--their eye impatiently Seeks where the Moslem’s flag flaunts proudly o’er the sea:-- “’Tis there! ’Tis there!” exclaim the brave, impatient crowd,-- The sails unfurled,--each soul with rage and courage burns,-- Each to the combat turns: They meet,--it thunders loud! I see from Ætna’s rocks a floating army throng: A hero,[141] yet unsung, wafts the proud choir along,-- The masts, a fir-tree wood,--the sails, like outspread wings. List to the shoutings! See the flash! They thunder near. Earthquakes and night are there,-- With storm the welkin rings. There January speeds,--there Svyatosláv moves on, And waves and smoke alike are in the tempest thrown; And there the ship that bears the three-times hallowed[142] name, And Rostisláv and Europe, there triumphant ride; While the agitated tide Is startled with the flame. Evstáf, in fire concealed, scatters the deathlike brand, And earth and heaven are moved, and tremble sea and land; And there, a mountain pile, sends round the deeds of death, As if Vesuvius’ self in combat were engaged,-- While other mountains raged, And poured their flaming breath. The roar, the whiz, the hum, in one commingling sound, The clouds of smoke that rise, and spread and roll around; The waves attack the sky in wild and frenzied dance; The sails are white as snow; and now the sun looks on, Now shrouds him on his throne, And the swift lightnings glance.